


Yes, And (The Second City)

by lightspire



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Slings & Arrows, due South
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, First Time, Humor, Improv, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rats, The Second City comedy theater, intentional misuse of peanut butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 02:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: Fraser and RayK go undercover as improv acting students at The Second City comedy theater to catch a blackmailer. Can they find the bad guys before Fraser dies of embarrassment? Will they ever learn the true meaning of Yes, And? Live from Chicago! It’s….





	1. LIVE FROM CHICAGO

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery references and notes at the end.  
> Thanks to bluehaven4220 for cheerleading and Ride_Forever for seeing typos that I can't == hugs to both of you.

Huey, Dewey, and Ray hover over a box of fresh jelly donuts, raising their voices to be heard amidst the usual morning buzz and clatter of the break room at the 27th. Diefenbaker circles their legs, whining and looking longingly up at the counter. Nearby, Fraser stands rigid as a post, listening politely, a pressed and polished red cardinal surrounded by a flock of chattering starlings. 

“Seriously? You’ve never heard of Saturday Night Live?” Huey asks Fraser, his tone a condescending mix of surprise and pity that he doesn’t even try to hide. “You’re joking.” 

Ray’s hand freezes in midair halfway between the donut box and his mouth; he’s debating whether to tell Huey to back off his partner, or wait and see what Fraser will do. He decides to wait.

Huey blows on his cup of the hot sludge that passes for coffee at the station and takes a sip, wincing as he burns himself. Ray’s not the slightest bit sorry. Huey had it coming. Just ‘cause Fraser knows zip about American TV doesn’t give Huey the right to treat him like a suspect.

“Actually, I have heard of it,” Fraser says, clutching the brim of his hat, holding it in front of his chest like a shield. 

Fraser’s trying not to sound defensive, but Ray can hear it: the slight edge to his voice that in a wolf would manifest as a curled lip, but in Fraser reads as extra politeness to those who don’t know better. Ray knows better.

The Mountie likes to think he’s made of teflon-coated titanium, but underneath it all he just wants to be accepted like anyone else. Huey’s grilling isn’t just putting Fraser on the back foot; it’s making Ray feel a little twitchy, too, and not in a good way — his hair’s starting to stand up all on its own. 

“Prove it,” Dewey chimes in, grabbing another donut from the box while Dief looks on, forlorn.

Ray scowls and jerks his head sideways. Damn it, Dewey, not you too. You’re supposed to be the nice one. 

Ray wishes they’d quit acting like Fraser’s not as good as they are just because he’d spent his childhood in a library on the tundra instead of glued to the tube. He’d like to see one of  _ them _ survive a single day in the Northwest Areas — that’d show ‘em how useful their TV trivia really is.

“I believe the show in question is an irreverent sketch comedy program,” Fraser says.

“It’s only one of the funniest things on TV,” Dewey presses the point while taking a bite of donut, “everybody knows that.” A dusting of powdered sugar falls all over his tie. He scrubs at it but it’s stuck there like snow in January. Serves him right for ragging on Fraser over something so stupid.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray sees the tiny clench in Fraser’s jaw. Ray doubts Dewey even noticed.

“What about SCTV?” Huey asks. “It’s from Canada — surely you’ve seen  _ that _ one.”

All right, enough. Ray’s freckles are up — hackles, whatever — and he’s about to tell them to knock it off already, but Fraser saves him the trouble.

“I’m afraid I’ve never watched much television,” Fraser says. “A moose sat on our set when I was nine and after that we only got the sports channel.”

Huey and Dewey stop mid-bite and mid-sip to stare at him, trying to decide if the Mountie is telling the truth or is messing with their heads. Fraser’s face is neutral, blank, and unreadable — except to Ray.

Ray smirks at that. Fraser is totally fucking with them. Good for you, Red.

“Saturday Night Live and SCTV both came from The Second City,” Ray says, placing a hand on Fraser’s shoulder. “The theater we’re investigating.”

Someone is threatening The Second City comedy theater, of all places. Yeah, that theater — the one lots of famous actors and comedians come from, the one that looks (and smells) like a dive on the inside — and actually is, if you ask anyone who works there. Everybody in Chicago knows how famous it is except Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP.

“Ah. I see,” Fraser says. “I wasn’t aware of the connection. Now I understand the relevance of this line of inquiry.” He gives a little nod in Ray’s direction. “Thank you for enlightening me, Ray.”

In Ray’s head, “Thank you for enlightening me, Ray,” sounds exactly like “Fuck you, Huey and Dewey,” only in Canadian. It’s a good reminder that Fraser’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself when it comes to insensitive dickhammers.

“They do that thing where you make stuff up as you go along,” Ray says. He waves two fingers in a circle, trying to grab the words from the air because, as usual, they’re not coming from his mouth, “you know, imp — something.”

“Improvisation,” Dewey says. He turns to Huey, “Hey, maybe we should do some of that in our act.”

Ray swallows the last bite of his donut and licks the powdered sugar off his fingertips before touching them to Fraser’s chest.

“C’mon, Fraser, we got work to do.” 

“Right you are.”

Ray makes his way to his desk, Fraser in tow, leaving Huey and Dewey to argue about whether Shimmer is a floor wax or a dessert topping. 

###

Three extortion letters so far — printed on untraceable computer paper with no postmarks and no fingerprints — have been left in the new Assistant Manager’s office at The Second City. 

There’s been a lot of turnover at the top lately, and somebody, or several somebodies, are hacked off enough about it to threaten the theater unless they turn over a hundred grand, which is just plain D-U-M. Blackmailing the theater for money makes no sense. The place is a wreck. It’s only now starting to pull itself together financially under the new management — it’s not exactly rolling in dough. Somebody is trying to take the place down out of spite, one way or another.

The suits at Second City don’t want this to get out to the public or to upset the cast, which is understandable, because there’s (almost) nothing worse than a bunch of bent-out-of-shape divas. 

Since anyone who’s ever had anything to do with the theater could be the culprit, they can’t be too obvious about their investigations. Time to go undercover.

Ray digs his phone out from under a teetering stack of files and dials The Second City’s Assistant Manager. The guy’s already given them a list of everyone who was recently fired. They also have the go-ahead to sign up for any intro class at the Training Center — nobody’s going to blink if two new students show up. 

Fraser’s watching Ray talk on the phone. He studies Ray thoughtfully, roving his eyes over his face, which makes Ray’s ears turn pink. It looks like Fraser wants to speak but is too polite to interrupt.

“I’m on hold,” Ray says. “What?”

“I think you would be very good at improvisational acting,” Fraser says. “After all, you do it every day in this job.”

Ray covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “You got a point. OK, I’ll take an improv class. What about you? Ever do any acting?”

“It depends what you mean by acting. I have done undercover work. As for stage acting, not much. I did play Third Shepherd in the Christmas pageant in year three. And as you know, I’ve done some singing.”

“Musical theater it is, then,” Ray says, and speaks into the phone. “This is Ray Vecchio from the 27th ….”

“No. Wait, I didn’t mean .…” Fraser says, a look of alarm on his face.

“Too late. I’ve signed you up.”

“Oh, dear.”


	2. IMPOSTOR SYNDROME

Fraser and Ray stop by a coffee shop near the training center before class the next morning.  

Hazy golden light slants through the large, arched, antique windows that line the front of the café, casting long shadows across the varnished wood floor. Framed black-and-white photos of old Chicago and vintage musical instruments decorate the mellow brick walls. 1940s train-station lights hang from the ceiling. Tiny tables topped with equally tiny vases of fresh flowers dot the room. The whole place is trying so hard to be trendy and charming that it makes Ray’s teeth ache.

The scents of coffee, vanilla, cinnamon, and something else — a hint of fear maybe, fill the air. Ray’s pretty sure that last bit, the fear, is coming from all the acting students hanging out at the tables scattered around the shop. 

The students have a certain air about them — hope mixed with desperation, barely hidden under a tough-guy (or girl) mask. Every one of them wants to be the next Dan Aykroyd or Gilda Radner, but most will end up waiting tables or selling insurance and deep down they know it. You can smell it on ‘em.

“Would you like anything?” Fraser asks. “I’m going to get a cup of tea.”

Ray’s stomach growls. “I could murder a blueberry muffin.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a statute regarding homicide of baked goods,” Fraser deadpans.

He’s in a good mood this morning, considering he’s about to be thrust into the world of  _ West Side Story _ and  _ Rent _ . Ray really hopes they don’t ask Fraser to do any musical-style dancing. Singing and acting was going to be tricky enough for his friend. Being forced to do anything more than a waltz might push him from slightly-unhinged into a full-blown nervous breakdown. Ray can just imagine it: Fraser ending up in the loony bin, palms raised, permanently stuck in a catatonic display of jazz-hands. Which would be hilarious, if it weren’t also a real possibility.

“Would you like butter with your muffin?” Fraser asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Sure,” Ray says. Fraser can butter his muffin any old time.

“One muffin with extra butter, coming right up.” Fraser strides purposefully towards the bakery cases near the counter, a man on a mission. “I’ll only be a moment.” 

Ray watches Fraser move away from him, admiring his broad, muscled back and that nice-looking ass in those tight faded jeans, then stops himself, blushing. He’s hungrier than he realized — and for more than breakfast. He’s had a thing for Fraser, he didn’t know how long, maybe since always, and the intensity of it went up and down from day to day. Looks like it’s an up kinda day. 

Too bad, sucks to be him, because their relationship is strictly buddies. Ray has to settle for the occasional stolen glance when Fraser’s not looking, or if he’s lucky, he gets a helping hand up. On really good days he gets a shoulder hug, except for that one time with the mouth and the air which was totally a kiss even though Fraser insisted it wasn’t.

Ray had dropped hints here and there that he’d like to be more than buddies — a lot more, to be honest — but either Fraser wasn’t interested, wasn’t good at picking up signals, or the wall around his heart was as thick as a fallout shelter. Ray couldn’t be sure which. And because Fraser was Fraser, unless a miracle happened and something cracked that shell, nothing was going to change anytime soon. So buddies was good enough. It had to be.

“You got it wrong — again.” A man’s voice, raised in anger. 

Ray’s ears prick up. He scans the room until he finds the source. A customer — a real jerk by the look of him —  is yelling at the young woman behind the cash register. He shoves a coffee cup in her face, and she glares daggers back at him.

“I said SOY milk! Not cow’s milk. Not goat, not camel, not gerbil milk — SOY. Can no one do anything right in this godforsaken city? You make New Burbage look good, and that is saying something.” 

The man’s a walking advertisement for the fashion section of _Douchebag_ _Monthly_. He’s wearing a slim black blazer with wide-set pinstripes, dark khaki shirt, tight black leather pants, matching heeled boots, and tinted glasses. His messy layers of dark hair are swept back in a blue paisley headband, and a fringed scarf shot through with metallic threads circles his neck. He reaches up to give the scarf a dramatic flip every time he makes a point.

Fraser’s close to the register now. He’s keeping one eye on the douchebag and the other on the woman in case she needs any help — and Ray’s keeping an eye on all three of them. 

The man sees Fraser and does a cartoon double-take. His jaw drops in shock, the not-soy-milk situation completely forgotten.

“Geoffrey.” He says, squaring off with Fraser.

“Pardon?” Fraser looks at him, confused. “Are you speaking to me?”

“Geoffrey fucking Tennant. What the hell are you doing in Chicago? You’ve not added dementia-related wanderings to your litany of mental complaints, have you?”

Ray smells trouble and moves to stand at Fraser’s elbow.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” Fraser says. He’s gone full Mountie mode, even though he’s in his civvies and doesn’t have his hat or anything.

“That’s absurd,” the man says, adjusting his scarf. “Amnesia, is it now? Very well then, who do you…” he peers down his nose at them through his glasses, “and your little punk friend here claim to be today, exactly?” 

Punk, huh?  _ I’ll show you punk _ . Ray’s fingers quiver, threatening to curl into fists.

“My name is Benton Fraser. I first came to Chicago….”

Ray elbows Fraser hard in the ribs before he accidentally blows their cover. 

“We’re students,” Ray says, cutting him off, “at The Second City Training Center.” Jesus, Fraser. Enough with the all honesty, all the time schtick. You’re gonna get somebody killed.

“Uh, yes. That’s right,” Fraser says. “Students.” 

It’s lucky they’re actually signed up for classes because there’s no telling what Fraser would’ve told this guy otherwise.

The man looks doubtful. “Are you certain you’re not related to Geoffrey Tennant? You could be his doppelganger.” He squints at Fraser. “Although I must admit your personal hygiene is vastly improved over the last time I saw you … I mean, him.” He touches his scarf again.

“No, sir, I am not related to anyone by that name. At least not that I’m aware of,” Fraser says, putting his hands behind him in parade rest and standing tall. 

The man shrinks back, like he’s afraid Fraser’s about to hit him or something. Turns out Douchebag is a candy-ass chicken shit, all bark and no bite. 

Fraser adds, “If I may ask, who might you be?”

“Me?” The man touches his chest. He looks down his nose again, all high-and-mighty, like he’s offended that they don’t already know. “I am Darren Nichols, Director-in-Residence for this summer’s musical improvisation season. Deal with  _ that. _ ” He waits a second to see their reaction, but his face falls when neither of them seems impressed.

Yeah, Darren,  _ you _ deal with that.

“Forgive me for asking,” Fraser says politely, being way nicer than this guy deserves, “I couldn’t help but overhear — did you say you were from New Burbage, Ontario?”

Darren eyes Fraser, wary, and thinks this over for a moment before answering. 

“Very well, you’ve convinced me,” his face relaxes. “You’re far too civilized to be Geoffrey. Yes, I have been calling Ontario home of late, when I’m not in Berlin. What of it?”

“I’m from the Northwest Territories, myself.”

“Are you now. How unfortunate. Though it does explain the plaid,” he says, scowling at Fraser’s shirt and twisting his lips into a frown.

Rude. Who does this guy think he is, the fashion police? And he’s one to talk — a headband? Seriously?

Darren flips his scarf, apparently having decided that Fraser and Ray are no longer of any use to him. 

“Sorry, can’t stop to chat, must dash.” He twirls around and flounces towards the door, coffee cup in hand.

Once he’s out of earshot, Ray mimics him in a singsong voice, “Sorry, can’t stop to chat, must dash, la-dee-da.” He swishes an imaginary scarf over his shoulder. “Douchebag.” 

This earns him a giggle from the girl behind the counter, and Ray flashes her a smile. 

Ray looks Fraser in the eye, mock-accusingly, “I thought you Canadians were supposed to be polite?”

“That is, sadly, a common misconception, Ray, and I have to admit that my fellow countryman’s behavior does leave something to be desired.” 

Fraser turns back to the young woman at the register and gives her a warm look, trying to make up for Darren’s douchebaggery with all the charm he can muster. 

“Two blueberry muffins with extra butter, and a cup of hot English Breakfast tea, please.” 

He fishes a bill from his pocket. It’s more than enough to cover the cost of breakfast and a generous tip. 

“Please, keep the change,” he says. 

The girl smiles. Fraser has somehow managed to turn an ugly situation into a good one —  well, a better one, at least — just by being Fraser.

Ray could totally kiss him for that, but it’s time to get to class.


	3. BIG BOOTY

A sign, hand-written in black marker on white typing paper and held up with two pieces of masking tape, flutters on the wall next to the open door of Fraser’s classroom. It reads: Musical Improvisation, Level 1.

Fraser stops short of the door and ponders briefly whether there isn’t a better, potentially less humiliating way to be undercover than pretending to be a student of musical theater. Regardless of his preferences, he is here now, so he might as well make the most of it. He sets his shoulders, steps through the doorway and scans the room.

Mirrors completely cover one long wall. Scratched blue plastic-and-metal chairs rest haphazardly around the edges of the space. Sagging white acoustic tiles line the ceiling, interspersed by rectangles of unflattering fluorescent light. Worn and gouged wood planks, badly in need of a refinishing job, cover the floor.  A battered upright piano takes up one end of the room, and the air smells faintly of sweat and breath-mints. 

Fraser heads to the far corner, claiming an ideal vantage point to observe the door and the other students. He counts nine adults, men and women of various ages. Some sit, others stand, chatting with each other, waiting for the instructor to arrive. So far nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

A man, one of the students, makes a beeline for him. By the time he’s reached Fraser’s corner, Fraser has made a mental note of his height, weight, attire and possible profession. He’s on the small side: one metre sixty-eight, sixty-five kilograms, approximately thirty-two years of age, curly tousled red hair, striking blue eyes. He’s wearing a bright green t-shirt with the words, “I make stuff up” emblazoned across it, new blue-jeans and slightly worn Reebok athletic shoes. Good teeth. Probably a guitarist, judging by the elongated fingernails on his right hand.

“Hi, I’m Dan,” he says, beaming at Fraser.  A stray shock of hair falls down over his left eyebrow and he pushes it back nervously.  “Are you new?”

Fraser nods. “Yes. I’m Benton. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dan.” 

“Well aren’t you the gentleman,” Dan says, giving him a flirtatious smile.

He seems nice enough. If Dan is typical of students at the school, perhaps this experience will prove less odious than anticipated.

“I try,” Fraser nods once. “Are you new as well?”

“It’s not my first rodeo, cowboy,” Dan winks. “I’ve been here a few months.”

A few months. Long enough to have some insight as to what might be going on, at least. Fraser decides to ask him a few questions before the instructor arrives.

“What do you think of the school?”

“It’s fabulous. Everyone here has your back,” Dan leans towards him and drops his voice. “Well, everyone who survived the massacre, anyway.”

“Massacre?” Fraser asks, alarmed. Nobody had said anything about a massacre.

“A bunch of people got fired when the Canadians took over earlier this year. It was quite the bloodbath.”

Oh. A metaphorical massacre. Even so, this doesn’t sound good at all — Fraser wonders if perhaps his government’s top-secret plan to make Americans fear Canadians had taken an odd turn.

“Which Canadians would those be, exactly?” 

“Some bigwigs from Toronto came in and started running the place all corporate-like. But, hey, if it gets us healthcare and a living wage, I’m not complaining.”

“What happened to the people who left?”

“Rumor has it some of them went nuts. I say good riddance,” Dan flips his hand with a dismissive flick.

Fraser is about to ask another question, but stops with his mouth halfway open as Darren Nichols, arms laden, sweeps into the room, scarf fluttering behind him. 

Oh dear.

“Greetings and felicitations, class,” Darren says. 

He places a large portable cassette player on top of the piano and drops a black leather courier-bag onto a chair. His hands finally free, he digs a clipboard out of the bag and glances at it. 

“I see we have a new student today,” he scans the group and spots Fraser. “Oh. It’s you,” he says, his voice dripping with disappointment. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Benton, sir.” 

Fraser snaps to attention out of habit, catches himself, then very deliberately relaxes his stance. Student, not Mountie. Student.

“Benton. You’re not serious.” Darren says. 

He still seems unnerved by Fraser. Must be something about that Geoffrey Tennant fellow whom he resembles.

“I’m afraid so.” 

Fraser adopts a thin-lipped smile and tries to exude politeness from every pore, hoping to reassure him. If his undercover attempt is to be successful, it’s important that Mr. Nichols accept him into the class.

“And you’re absolutely certain you haven’t been suffering from the after-effects of recent electroshock therapy? Like, oh I don’t know, talking to dead people …?”

“I can assure you that I am not,” Fraser says, glancing around the room for any sign of his father’s ghost and wondering if Mr. Nichols might not himself be unhinged. “At least not at this time.”

Darren looks at Fraser sideways for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders. “Life’s just fucking nuts, isn’t it?” he says. “Very well,  _ Benton _ , you may stay. But if you try to stab anyone with a sword, you’re out.” 

“Sir, I can assure you that I shall do my utmost to avoid stabbing anyone with a sword.” 

Fraser concludes that this particular demand should be simple enough to fulfill, given that there do not seem to be any swords in the room.

Darren turns to address the class. “Let that be a reminder to you all.”

The students stare at him, bewildered.

Darren clears his throat. “Moving on — I hope that all of you have left your inhibitions at the door. For today’s lesson we’ll be playing with language — specifically, swearing.” 

What? Did he say swearing? This did not bode well.

Darren continues, “Chicago writer Peter Dunne once declared that ‘swearing was invented as a compromise between running away and fighting.’ Your goal for today is to find that space between running and fighting.” He ducks his chin and looks directly at Fraser.

Fraser can feel his chest tighten and his jaw clench. This is not good, not good at all. The one time he attends class, it has to be the day they’re going for the jugular of his sensibilities. 

“Oooh, this should be fun,” Dan says to Fraser, smiling. But when he sees the expression on Fraser’s face, he turns sympathetic. “Aw, don’t look so nervous, Ben — may I call you Ben?” Dan asks, touching him on the arm. “Stick by me and I’ll show you the ropes.”

Revealing the slightest sign of weakness is the last thing Fraser wants to do right now. He’s supposed to be undercover but already he’s faced with an ethical dilemma — either participate in the swearing lesson and violate his personal moral code — or don’t, and possibly blow his cover. 

He wonders whether Ray is being forced to make such a choice in his class, but, no, he wouldn’t. Ray has no qualms about cursing, quite the opposite, and in that instant Fraser genuinely wishes Ray were here. He would know how to handle this. He feels Ray’s absence as a dull ache in his chest.

“Everyone form a circle,” Darren says. “We’ll warm up by playing Big Booty. When anyone screws up, shout ‘Oh, shit!’ Loud as you can. Any questions?”

Fraser raises his hand. “I have two, if I may.” 

“Of course you do,” Darren rolls his eyes. “Well?”

“The booty in question — would that be pirate-related or something else?”

“Interpret it how you like,” Darren says, smirking. “Next question.”

“Is it absolutely necessary to swear?” Fraser asks. “I’m not comfortable with that.”

“You bet your sweet snowy ass it is. For today anyway. All of you, I want you to swear your little hearts out. Are you ready? Let’s do this. Cry ‘fuck!’ and let slip the dogs of war!” he shouts.

Fraser’s ears are already burning. He has no idea how he’s going to participate without tearing a hole in his metaphorical bag of marbles. Although perhaps that’s the point: every actor or artist he’d ever met had a slightly eccentric view of reality. Perhaps the purpose of this class is to enter a sort of altered state of consciousness, using swearing instead of, say, burning ceremonial herbs. 

The students number off — Fraser gets number eight — and the game begins with clapping and chanting. It’s not exactly like any Dené ceremony he’s ever witnessed, but there are parallels. He decides to think of it that way, like a sacred ceremony, complete with sacred language, and maybe if he imagines really, really hard that he’s in a sweat lodge up on the tundra, he’ll find a way to get through it.

BIG BOOTY, BIG BOOTY, BIG BOOTY, OH, YEAH. 

BIG BOOTY, NUMBER 2

NUMBER 2, NUMBER 5

NUMBER 5, NUMBER 3

NUMBER 3, BIG BOOTY….

Fraser catches on to the general idea quickly, but the second time his number is called, he fumbles. 

“Oh, darn,” he says, which gets a laugh from the rest of the group and a side-eye from Darren. 

Fraser blushes, embarrassed by both his mistake and his inability to say “shit” along with the rest of the group. He steels himself and the next time he makes a mistake he tries again, but is unsuccessful. He simply cannot bring himself to say it. There is no joy in it for him — furthermore, he fails to see the point. He is baffled by the proposition that unfettered cursing is somehow supposed to improve anyone’s acting skills. He wishes he could care less about such things, but he cannot. It’s not in his nature.

After a couple of minutes, Darren calls time on the game. Everyone is laughing and smiling except Fraser, who is more tense than when he walked in the door. If there had been a closet in the room, or even a large credenza, he’d be figuring out a way to sneak into it.

Darren claps his hands overhead. “Well done, class!” 

He reaches into his courier bag, pulls out a stack of papers, and hands them to the woman standing next to him. 

“Pass these around,” he says. “Now that you’re all loosened up, we’ll be working with the original 1971 script for the musical  _ Grease _ . I’ve got chills thinking about it!” He grins, and waits for the class to laugh. Which they don’t. “Ahem. Well. Anyway. The original script was rude, crude, and in-your-face, not the candy-store version you’ve all seen. I trust you’ll find this exercise most liberating. After that, we’ll try improvising a lusty song together.”

Fraser turns an even deeper shade of crimson. “I … I don’t believe I should do this,” he says, stroking an eyebrow with his thumb. 

“Of course you can, sweetie,” Dan coos. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Honestly? No.”

“Well why are you here, then?”

“I am …” Fraser hesitates. How to answer truthfully without giving away his cover? “I am trying to find a man. Or a woman. A particular one, not just anyone.”

“Aren’t we all, honey,” Dan says, patting Fraser’s arm again. “But I bet if you give this a fair shake, you might find what you’re looking for.” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice.

Fraser nods. “I’ll try.” He fully intends to fulfill his duty, despite the fact that his discomfort is increasing with every passing second.

“That’s the spirit!”

Darren addresses the class. “Each one of you should have a different set of lyrics. When your part comes up, I want you to belt it out! Let’s shake the walls, people.” He glares at Fraser. “That includes you, Sandra Dee.” 

Darren punches buttons on the tape player and turns up the volume. Music fills the room and Fraser looks down at his lyric sheet:

 

WITH NEW PISTONS, PLUGS AND SHOCKS

I CAN GET OFF MY ROCKS

YOU KNOW THAT I AIN’T A BRAGGIN’

SHE’S A REAL PUSSY WAGON 

GREASED LIGHTNING

 

Fraser swallows, hard, and breaks into a sweat. The sheer vulgarity of the song is breathtaking. There is no way he is going to sing those words, in either his current life or the next. While not technically a criminal act, this feels worse than stealing Milk Duds. It’s … wrong. For him, anyway. 

He’d rather be stranded on an ice floe or battling a group of bank-robbing terrorists on a train than this. At least then his choices would be clear. Fighting isn’t an option, and the so-called compromise of swearing isn’t working for him — the cognitive dissonance is too intense. The only recourse left is to run, preferably to somewhere less tawdry. Besides, Fraser reasons, there is nothing more to learn about the case by staying.

As the other students begin to sing, some of them nervously and others with great gusto, he edges his way towards the door and slips out. Fraser mouths a silent “sorry” at Dan, who is looking at him the same way Diefenbaker looks at donuts he can’t have. 

Halfway down the hall, Fraser can still hear voices raised in song, off-key and off-colour, ringing in his ears. 

###

Fraser makes his way towards the main offices, hoping to find the Assistant Manager. He intends to keep him apprised of everything he and Ray have discovered, which, so far, is not much. Along the way, he peers into other classrooms, unoccupied dressing rooms, and cluttered storage and backstage areas, taking in as much as he can. 

He decides not to lick anything, though — there are questionable smells on nearly every surface and even his constitution is not indestructible. Ray would likely be relieved to hear that, if he knew. Fraser smiles to himself at the thought and wonders where Ray is, and whether he has learned anything useful.

Loud shouts echo from one of the  rehearsal rooms down the hall, and Fraser moves to investigate. As he passes a storage closet, the door opens abruptly and someone crashes into him from the side.

“Ugh!” she yelps.

“I am so sorry,” Fraser apologizes, “please excuse me.”

A petite woman, fiftyish, wearing stained workers’ coveralls, glowers up at him. Her blonde hair is tucked up under a ball cap with an “X-Term-In-Ate” logo printed on it. Worn-out tennis shoes cover her feet. Her eyes are sunken, haunted, her skin ashen, her expression a mixture of fear and indignation. She doesn’t look well at all.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Fraser asks.

She says nothing, but turns and stalks off down the hallway, her shoes squeaking on the wood floor. The heel on her left shoe is more worn than the right, so the sound her steps make is more of a clunk-squeak-step than a step-squeak-step.

Fraser watches her go. Curious. Something about her doesn’t add up: he suspects that she may not actually be a professional exterminator. Perhaps she is an actor in costume. For one, her shoes are wrong — aren’t workers required to wear boots? And where is her respirator and other gear? The oddest thing about her, however, is that she is holding a large jar of peanut butter and a white plastic spoon in her hand. Perhaps she is hungry. But if that were so, why is she eating in a storage closet? Then again, who was he to judge other people’s lifestyles when he lived in his office.

Fraser resumes his walk down the hall, towards the shouting, which is coming from a rehearsal room ahead on the left. Perhaps someone is in need of assistance. He peers inside the open doorway to make sure everything is all right. 

Four young performers, two women and two men, sit in a circle of chairs, acting out a heated argument. That is a relief. It appears to be a rehearsal, not requiring the intervention of an undercover Canadian constable.

A dark-haired man in glasses yells, “We were so poor that our family pet was a piece of bread in the shape of a dog! And you’d drag it around the house, Oh, look, it’s Poochie!” He mimes leading a dog by its leash. “It was a piece of bread with brown food coloring on it!” He sticks out his tongue, waggles his hands, and makes a silly gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

The other actors are trying not to laugh, struggling to stay in character, but it’s not working well. Fraser is mildly amused, although the surrealist humor is a little lost on him. Like so many things in Chicago.

They notice Fraser standing politely in the doorway, and stop the scene.

“Can we help you?” the man with the glasses asks.

Fraser feels bad for interrupting them and quickly thinks of a legitimate reason for standing in their doorway other than simple curiosity.

“I apologize for disturbing you. Would you happen to know where I might find the Assistant Manager?

“If he’s not in his office, try the mainstage. Sometimes he hangs out there to watch rehearsals.”

“Thank you kindly.” 


	4. THE FIRST RULE OF IMPROV

Ray, meanwhile, goes directly from the coffee shop to the training center, where he starts sniffing around. Unlike Fraser, he doesn’t feel the need to actually attend class — that’s just a useful excuse to be in places he otherwise shouldn’t be. It’s enough to walk around like he owns the joint. 

He wanders for a few minutes until — what’s that? Sounds like singing. Coming from a rehearsal room. He stops outside the open door to watch. 

A couple of twenty-something white guys are standing side by side, heads bowed and arms folded in prayer like monks. One of the guys is thin as a rail and has dark curly hair. The other, taller one, dressed in a striped button down shirt and tie, looks like a reporter who just walked off the evening news. 

A pretty, petite blonde woman stands near them.

“Ding!” she says, and rings an imaginary bell. The men start singing a song in the style of a Gregorian Chant:

 

“I SEE A RED DOOR AND I WANT IT PAINTED BLACK ....”

 

Ray bursts out laughing.

They all look up, and the guy who looks like a reporter — Ray decides to call him Reporter Man for now — breaks into one of the most beautiful smiles Ray has ever seen. 

“Like that, do you?” Reporter Man says. 

Ray isn’t sure whether he means the funny song or the dazzling smile. 

“Well that’s at least somewhat reassuring,” Reporter Man says, and saunters over to the doorway where Ray is standing. “New student?” He looks straight into Ray’s eyes, all energy focused completely on him. “You look like you might be lost.”

Ray nods, riveted by Reporter Man’s gaze. “Uh, yeah. I was looking for the john. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Reporter Man reassures him. “Everyone gets lost here at first.” 

How polite. Reporter Man reminds him of Fraser. Sort of. But he doesn’t sound Canadian — there’s a soft tilt to his accent, like he’s from the Deep South but trying to hide it.

“Well ain’t that a surprise,” the blonde woman says in a strong southern twang. No hiding anything there. “Another lost lambie pie.” She skips over to Ray. “Aren’t you the cutest little twinkie. I just want to lick out the creamy filling and eat you right up,” she giggles. 

Twinkie? Who the hell does this chick think she is?

“I’m Amy,” she points to herself. 

Well that answers that. Amy Not-Buddies.

“And this is Stephen — that’s Stephen with a PH, as in phallus,” she says, pointing to Reporter Man’s crotch.

Got it. StePHen Like-Fraser-But-Not-Fraser. Two down.

“And this skinny fellow is Paul,” she waves at Curly-hair. “We’re lovers, so don’t get any ideas, unless you’re into threesomes,” she adds, a gleam in her eye, “in which case go ahead and get all the ideas you like.”

Three. Paul Lover-Boy with the crazy-ass girlfriend.

Amy’s clearly testing Ray, trying to psych him out, but he manages to keep his cool. He’s heard far worse in the precinct interview rooms. Ray raises an eyebrow and fixes her with a steely gaze.

Amy looks at him, head cocked sideways, and steely-gazes right back.

“The restroom is down that way, two lefts, a right, up the stairs, second door on your right,” she says, pointing her fingers in all directions.

“No it isn’t, you little witch,” Paul says. It’s right there, behind you,” he makes a twirling motion with his hand. 

Ray glances over his shoulder and sure enough, the men’s room is right there. Busted.

Amy sticks her tongue out at Paul, “You’re no fun.” Paul sticks out his tongue back at her.

Stephen folds his arms and leans against the doorway. “What’s your name?” he asks politely. Again with the polite. The only person with better manners in a hundred mile radius was Fraser. He and this guy would get along great.

“Ray. I’m Ray.”

“Nice to meet you, Ray-I’m-Ray. Are you enjoying your studies at the training center?” 

“Yeah, sure,” he lies. “Bit different from what I’m used to.” But not that different. Chicago obviously has enough nutcases, drama queens, and weirdos to go around.

Just then, a young, reserved-looking, clean-cut guy with brown hair and glasses leans past Ray and pokes his head into the room. 

“Hey. Understudy,” he says, jerking his head towards Stephen. “You got a sec? I want to run through the Maya sketch.”

Stephen turns to Amy and Paul. “Ok if I take off for a bit?” 

They nod and clasp each other’s hands for a second before letting go. It’s clear they won’t mind a few minutes alone. 

Stephen looks at Glasses Man, raises an eyebrow and says with a playful smolder, “Sure thing honey, I always have time for a quickie with you.” 

Glasses Man makes a kissy-face back at Stephen. To Ray, he says, “You. Come do this scene with us. We need an extra.”

Whoa. What? “Me?” Ray can hear his own voice squeak with surprise. Embarrassing. “I’m just a beginner. I don’t think .…” 

Stephen interrupts him in a loud, dramatic voice, “ But you have been chosen, and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have!” He waves his arms in a grand theatrical gesture and Ray has to take a step backwards to avoid getting smacked.

Okay then. Not getting out of this one so easy.

Paul leaps forward to clamp his fingers over Stephen’s mouth. “For God’s sake, don’t go quoting The Lord of the Rings at him, you big dork,” he says. “It’s bad enough he has to watch your acting.”

“It’s not nice to torture the newbies,” Amy adds, grimacing at Ray, “even if it is the most fun thing ever.” 

She’s a real piece of work, that one.

Stephen gets a wicked gleam in his eye, sticks his tongue out, and licks Paul’s hand. 

“Yuk!” Paul yelps. “You’re disgusting!” He jumps back, releasing Stephen’s mouth and wiping spit on Stephen’s shirt. 

Stephen smirks, leans into Paul’s touch, and says, “Ooh, yes.”

Paul looks at him seductively, “You like that, yeah I know you do.” 

Ray can see what’s coming a second before it happens. Stephen nods, parts his lips, and leans towards Paul like he’s going to kiss him. 

Glasses Man coughs. “Any time now.”

Stephen pulls away at the last second and turns to face Glasses Man. “Oh baby doll, are you jealous? I’ll get to you soon enough.”

Glasses Man snorts and smiles in spite of himself. 

Apparently this sort of thing happens all the time here. It’s a game. It reminds Ray of watching a bunch of middle schoolers in grown-up bodies, teasing each other on the playground during a round of Calvinball, making up the rules as they go along. Except that they’re all Calvin. Hobbes, the voice of reason, has left the building.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of improv,” Stephen says to Ray, smiling. Then his expression turns serious. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a beginner or you’ve been doing this for years. The first rule of improv ...”

Oh, so there  _ are _ rules for this game. 

“... is to say ‘YES, And.’ Always say Yes to whatever your partners throw at you, then give something back. Keep the game going. It’s all about trusting each other. The second rule is to not give a shit about what anyone else thinks of you.”

“Is there a third?” Ray asks.

“The third is, don’t apologize. OK?” There’s a twinkle in Stephen’s eye that Ray can’t resist.

These guys are totally nuts, and funny, and frankly alarming — all at the same time. It seems like there’s no choice but to go along with the craziness. In any case, Ray knows a thing or two about saying ‘Yes, And’ when it really matters — be it fighting lake pirates, putting mobsters in their place, or basically every day of his life with Fraser. Yeah, he can do this. Piece of cake. 

“Ok, sure,” Ray says. “I mean, YES. I’ll do it.”

“And?” Stephen asks, holding his palm up for more.

“And ...” think fast, Ray, “... and I will try not to puke on stage.”

Stephen laughs. “That’s the idea. Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. We’ve all got each other’s backs.”

“Ok then,” Glasses Man says. He turns to Ray and shyly offers a hand. “I’m Steve. With a v.”

“Ray.” He shakes. 

They turn to leave.

“Don’t forget the bathroom!”Amy says. 

“Oh. That. I’ll wait,” Ray says, embarrassed again. He was hoping they’d forgotten about his little attempt at a cover story, but, no, Amy has to go and make a big deal of it. She’s pulling out all the stops trying to get a rise out of him.

“Suit yourself, Twinkie. Bye bye.” She waves as they head down the corridor.

Ray bites his tongue on what he’s tempted to say back to her. Best not shake anyone’s peaches yet.

“Watch out for the rats!” Paul yells out behind them.

“Rats?” Ray hates rats. Nasty little buggers. Fraser gets along just fine with them, the freak, but Ray — no way José.

“Backstage,” Steve says. “They only bite a little.” He makes a buck-toothed chomping noise. 

“The live ones aren’t the problem,” Stephen says. “It’s the dead ones you have to watch out for. ‘I magine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jelly-like mass of liquid corruption,’” he says, “and you have some idea of what it smells like backstage after a long weekend.”

Oh great. Greatness. This place keeps getting weirder and weirder.

“Also,” Steve adds, “if you value your life, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t sit on the couch.”

“What’s wrong with the couch?” Ray asks, not at all sure he wants to know.

“You don’t want to know,” Steve and Stephen say in unison.

He hears that, loud and clear. Note to self: never touch the couch. 

Ray follows them down the hall, wondering if the smell of dead rats backstage could possibly be as hallucinogenic as a three-day old deceased caribou, then decides he could happily live the rest of his life not knowing what either of those things smells like. As they walk, he begins to wonder still more about the management — or lack thereof — of this theater. Something’s definitely queer here, and it’s not just him.

“Um, I won’t have to do anything strange on stage will I?” Ray asks, scratching his cheek.

“You’ll have to take all your clothes off,” Stephen says without a hint of irony. 

Ray looks at him, a worried-shocked expression wrinkling his brow. “You’re joking,” he looks to Steve, who is also keeping a perfectly straight face. “Right?” There’s no way he’s saying ‘Yes, And’ to that.

Stephen arches an eyebrow, a mischievous look in his eyes, then breaks into another one of those million-dollar grins. 

“You can keep your pants on this time,” he says, and winks. “Unless you prefer to perform naked, that is. Around here, anything goes.” He reaches out, taps Steve on the shoulder. “What do you think, Señor Carell? Pants on or off today?”

Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat, half laugh, half growl. He shakes his head and replies in a terrible fake French accent, “Aghh. I believe vee shall pervorm avec clothzing today, Monsieur Colbert.”

“Spoilsport.”


	5. MAYA

They reach the mainstage in a few minutes. It’s smaller than Ray expected, and darker too. It’s wood paneled and backed by a solid wall, covered in old-fashioned flocked wallpaper with a red design on it like his grandma’s house had. A group of actors that Ray hasn’t met yet is standing in a clump off to one side, talking and laughing.

No sign of any rats out here — that’s a relief, at least.

Steve brandishes an imaginary sword and shouts, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends!”  The other actors turn to look at him, expectant.

Not to be outdone, Stephen yells, “To Mordor!” and leaps onto the stage. 

Ray climbs up after him and everyone takes their places. Ray doesn’t have a clue what to do, but a pretty brunette named Tina rescues him. She shows him where to stand, and tells him what to say and when to say it. OK, yeah, he can do this, he thinks, huffing out a breath and giving his head a sideways shake. 

The sketch is strange, funny, and tugs at the heartstrings, in a weird sort of way. All the other characters think that Steven and Steve are actually two old southern black women named Shirley Wentworth and Sarah Brown, except for the two white guys themselves. It’s surreal but hilarious.

Ray is concentrating so hard on not laughing during the sketch that he nearly forgets his line, which is, “You have not heard the gospel until you’ve heard Shirley sing.”

The sketch ends and everyone claps, laughs, and pats each other on the back, even Ray, who only had the one line. He’s so caught up in the moment that he nearly forgets why he’s actually there.

“You’re smiling again!” Stephen says to Ray. “Maybe we’re doing something right after all.”

“That was great.”

“Were you nervous?” Stephen asks.

“A little. Not really.” 

It was a lot like undercover work, but Ray couldn’t tell Stephen that. Ray was in deep now — triple undercover, like a set of those Russian nesting dolls. Stanley Kowalski pretending to be Ray Vecchio, pretending to be a student, pretending to be Shirley Wentworth’s friend. A guy could get lost in a hall of mirrors, like that.

“Good.” Stephen says. “You can’t laugh and be afraid at the same time, so just keep laughing and everything will be fine. And if that fails, there’s always Xanax.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ray says, smiling again. He can’t help himself — Stephen’s joyful energy is infectious. “Thanks again. Oh, hey, while I’m thinking about it, you seen the Assistant Manager by any chance?

Stephen points to the back row, where a gray-haired gentleman in an equally gray suit and tie sits watching.

“We have to get back to rehearsals,” Stephen says. “Nice meeting you — see you ‘round the theater.” He mimes holding a phone to his ear and silently mouths the words, “Call me.”

Ray watches the actors leave. That’s when he spots Fraser standing in a dark corner of the room, near the doorway, watching everything.

###

Fraser envies Ray’s comfort onstage. Even from the back of the theatre, he can appreciate the way Ray moves, easy and graceful, his body filled with a taut, sinewy energy.  He looks beautiful in the lights, cheeks flushed and glowing.

Acting, it seems, brings out hidden depths in Ray, a confidence and joy Fraser rarely sees in him. It’s as though he has found a second home beneath the proscenium arch. As fine a police officer as he is, it occurs to Fraser that perhaps Ray had missed his true calling.

Unlike Fraser, for whom acting holds no appeal. 

The frustration of being unable to participate in the musical improvisation class grates on him, like gravel in his mouth. He is committed to fulfilling his duty as an undercover student by whatever means necessary, but the idea of swearing for swearing’s sake had violated his sense of right and wrong. The salaciousness of it all … it was too much to bear. The other students had made it look so easy, though, and that vexed him. 

Despite Ray’s efforts to “loosen him up,” to help him trust his instincts, he hadn’t improved much at trusting his gut, or anyone else’s for that matter, except perhaps Ray’s, than when he’d come to Chicago on the trail …. When he’d come to Chicago nearly four years ago. 

The rehearsal ends, and everyone applauds, Fraser included. He watches Ray interact with two strikingly handsome, dark-haired men. He recognizes one of them: the man who had told a story about a dog made of bread. The other looks like a politician, but with a kindness to his countenance that Fraser has never seen on any public official. Ray’s face as he talks with them is radiant, as though touched by starlight.

Fraser feels a pang of loneliness stab him in the chest, right below the sternum. These cast members have immediately, easily, welcomed Ray into their club, their pack. He has bonded with them through the shared experience of taking an emotional risk and surviving, and once again, Fraser is left standing alone in the cold. 

Ray bounds off stage and swaggers towards the back of the theater, still buoyant from his brief performance. He runs a hand absently through the tufts on top of his head. The light from the overhead spotlights catches in his hair, creating a golden halo. Fraser longs to tangle his own fingertips there … oh, to be a glove upon that hand. His fingers tremble involuntarily at the thought, but he reins himself in, reasserting his self-control.

Before Fraser can acknowledge Ray, he stops to speak in hushed tones to a well-groomed gray-haired man in the back row. This must be the Assistant Manager.

Fraser approaches them and introduces himself. After a short conversation updating the gentleman, and after the cast and crew has left the mainstage theater, Fraser and Ray remain, to talk. 

“You were fantastic up there,” Fraser says, giving Ray a thumbs-up. “A natural.”

Ray’s eyes light up, and a pink tinge sweeps across the nape of his neck. Fraser is more gratified than he probably should be to see that he can so easily elicit such responses from Ray.

“You think?” Ray asks, shy, looking up at Fraser through his long dark eyelashes, his gold-flecked blue eyes sparkling.

“Absolutely,” Fraser says. “I had every confidence that you would be good at stage acting, and you are.”

Ray smiles at him, and it’s dazzling — white teeth framed by full pink lips, soft and inviting.

Fraser’s mind drifts, idly wondering what it would feel like to kiss that smile, and whether kissing other places on Ray’s body would send those delicious rushes of pink over his skin, which Fraser would willingly trace with fingers and tongue and …. 

It’s not the first time he’s had thoughts like these, although he has trained himself not to dwell on them. He knows that for him, at least, love is perilous and passion even more so: a River God, Achelous, who writhes and thrashes, transforming into a monstrous serpent-beast when held fast, churning his wits into mud and leaving destruction in its wake. Did not even the great Bard himself write that “To be wise and love, exceeds man’s might”? 

Fraser had decided long ago, as soon as he’d become aware of his own feelings on the matter, that their partnership was too precious to risk its immolation through unwelcome advances. Partners and friends was good enough.  It had to be.

Fraser encourages such fantasies to blow in and out of his consciousness like passing snowflakes, lest they ignite in the heat of his desire. Recently, however, that self-imposed rule has become difficult to follow, because he keeps finding new ways to admire Ray.

“What’re you staring at,” Ray asks, “I got something in my teeth?” 

Fraser realizes that he has been gazing at Ray’s mouth too long, longer than plausible deniability might allow. His collar suddenly seems tight, but when he wedges his finger into the neck of his Henley to give it a tug, he finds it already unbuttoned. Ah. Not the collar, then. 

“Sorry. I was distracted.” Fraser composes his face back into Mountie mask mode, hoping Ray doesn’t ask too many questions or dig too deeply into the subtext of their conversation. Let the moment melt away like snow in July. “What were you saying?”

Ray stares at him, his eyes shadowed by doubt. He’s not buying Fraser’s answer. 

“I don’t think any of the cast is our suspect,” Ray says, finally. “They’re nuts, every one of them, but none of them seem like criminals. They got no motive.”

“I agree. A more likely suspect is someone who was fired during the recent Canadian takeover. Someone who would have both motive and opportunity because they know their way around the theater.”

“Canadian takeover. Ha. Now I’ve heard everything.”

“We did send you packing in the war of 1812,” Fraser reminds him. 

“Can it, Fraser.”

“Understood.”


	6. PIZZA NIGHT

It’s dinnertime and Ray’s starving again. They’ve left the theater, picked up Diefenbaker from the Consulate, and are finally back at Ray’s place, chowing down on a large ham and pineapple pie. Ray tosses a chunk of meat to Dief, who gulps it in one bite. The phrase ‘wolf it down’ means more to Ray now, ever since he’d teamed up with Fraser. 

Dief licks his chops and gives Ray literal puppy-dog eyes, hoping for more treats.

“Sorry, Fur-face, but I gotta eat too.”

Dief whines once before he pads back under the table to snuffle around and bump a wet nose against their legs.

The food is filling Ray’s stomach but he’s still hungry, still feeling empty in ways he’d rather not think about right now. Pizza’s fine for killing a craving for grease and carbs, but it isn’t going to plug the hole in his heart or calm the beast in his pants that’s howling to be fed. And right now, Ray hasn’t a clue what to do about either of those problems.

Fraser’s picking at his food and completely ignoring the glass of milk that Ray poured especially for him — mostly to keep Fraser from drinking straight from the carton, but also because he just wanted to do something nice. 

“Something wrong with your pizza?” Ray asks, taking a bite. It tastes OK to him. The sauce is a little spicy, maybe, but good pizza is like that. 

Fraser looks at Ray, startled, like he’s completely forgotten where he is — like he’s just come back from somewhere far away. The ass-end of Moose Antler Junction, or somewhere. 

“What? No, it’s fine,” Fraser says, but he drops his half-eaten slice back into the box like it’s not fine at all. “I was thinking about how good you were onstage today, and about my class,” he says, licking and sucking pizza grease off his fingers. 

Which, frankly, should be illegal. Come to think of it, Fraser licking his fingers definitely falls under the definition of “lascivious acts”. An image of Ray arresting and cuffing Fraser suddenly springs to mind, and he can’t help but lick his own lips. Damn his dirty, horny brain. The beast in Ray’s pants stirs and that’s not helping.

“How’d your class go, anyway? Did you sing?”

Fraser looks down, wipes his hands on a paper napkin, and rubs a knuckle across his eyebrow.

“That bad, huh?” Ray asks, and takes a sip of pop. The bubbles sting his tongue almost as much as the look of shame on Fraser’s face prickles at his heart. He’s not sure whether to ask what happened or if that would just embarrass Fraser more. 

“Do you remember the man who accosted me this morning in the coffee shop — Mr. Nichols?”

“You mean Darren Douchebag? Yeah. What about him?”

“As fate would have it, he’s the instructor for the level one musical theatre class.”

“You’re kidding,” Ray says, “that sucks.” He reaches out, gives Fraser’s shoulder a double pat.

“That isn’t the worst of it.”

“It gets worse?”

“Unfortunately. You see, I was unable to participate,” Fraser sighs. “Today’s class was all about swearing, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. I rarely swear and even then only do so if I have a compelling reason. The song our instructor wanted us to sing was vulgar and the lyrics violated my sensibilities .”

Ray stifles a laugh. Poor Fraser. Get him in front of a group of armed thugs and he’s fine. Ask him to spout random swear words and you might as well be forcing him to run naked down the waterfront. An image of Fraser running naked on the beach flashes through Ray’s mind and, geez, brain why’d you have to go  _ there _ . Ray’s pants-beast raises its head and sniffs the air hopefully. Down boy.

“It wasn’t funny, Ray.”

“Sorry,” Ray says, trying to bring his mind back to the conversation. “I get that. I do,” he nods in sympathy. “Sometimes you gotta make a judgment call when you’re undercover. Do you shoot the guy or miss on purpose? Do you sing the song or not?” 

Ray does get it. He has to make those kinds of decisions ten, a hundred times a day. Sometimes your values had to take a back seat to the job, for the greater good, but sometimes they didn’t. Deciding what to do at any given moment was never easy.

“I do wonder, however, if I missed out on something important by not participating,” Fraser says, taking a drink of his milk. “Outside of the case, that is.”

“ Like what?”

Ray polishes off his slice. He considers licking his own fingers but grabs a paper napkin instead. 

“Like learning to find middle ground. Mr. Nichols said swearing exists in the space between running and fighting — a halfway point, if you will.”

“ Yeah, it does, I guess. Never thought about it like that before.” Ray grabs another piece of pizza, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully for a minute. “I can kinda see how that’s hard for you. You’re like a rocket car. Either in park with a dead engine or running full tilt. No middle gears.”

Fraser raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying that I’m either emotionally inhibited or overly emotional to the point of obsession, with nothing in between?”

“Your words.”

“Ray Vecchio used to accuse me of being inhuman.”

“He’s not wrong. You are a freak.”

“As you are so fond of reminding me,” Fraser traces his finger through a drop of condensation on the table.

There’s a long pause before Ray speaks again. “Look, Frase. I’ve read your files. I know what you’ve done, who you are. Nobody’s all good or all bad — not even you. You can be one scary sonofabitch sometimes, but you’re not a lost cause.”

“Though I do seem to lack those middle gears, as you put it ….”

“You can learn. People change.”

“And what if I did find middle ground? What would I be then?”

“I don’t know. Happier?”

Ray leans back in his chair and studies Fraser’s face for a minute. “What would you do if you had a middle gear, anyway?”

Fraser stares at Ray, his eyes gone the color of a storm right before it hits the lake in winter. “I might ….” his voice trails off. His gaze flicks to Ray’s mouth and the fingers of Fraser’s right hand twitch, like he desperately wants to touch something but is holding back.

The hair on the back of Ray’s neck stands up.

The tip of Fraser’s tongue glides across his lips, leaving them wet and shiny. 

Ray’s pants-beast is fully alert now, ears pricked, straining to listen. Ray wonders what those wet lips might taste like, all pizza and milk and Fraser, and licks his own in response. 

In a flash, Fraser’s face turns red and his mask crashes down into place, a heavy garage door that’s blown its springs. 

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.” He gives his neck a sharp crack, sits bolt upright, posture-perfect, and reaches for his half-eaten piece of pizza. 

Ray jerks backwards in his chair, like he’s been hit. Whatever Fraser was going to say, or whatever was or was not about to happen, is definitely not happening now. This conversation is, as of this moment, officially going into the Things They Are Not Talking About file. 

Fraser wasn’t kidding about being emotionally inhibited. Right now he’s about as locked down as Fort Knox. Which is queer, because Fraser is perfectly capable of being honest about his feelings, at least some of the time, at least with Ray — so whatever is eating him must be really big, really personal, or both.

Ray feels like he needs to say something, smooth things over a bit, to let Fraser know that he’s safe with whatever thoughts are, or are not, going through his brain.

“I don’t think you’d be  _ you _ , if you were less uptight,” Ray says, impulsively reaching out to touch the back of Fraser’s hand. “It’s kind of your M.O.” 

The instant Ray’s fingers touch his skin, Fraser jerks his hand away like he’s been burned. 

Shit. Instead of making the situation better, he’s fucked up again. Ray clams up, afraid of sticking his foot in it any deeper.

Fraser breathes out a frustrated sigh. “I am no longer certain I want that to be my modus operandi.” He looks at Ray, sadness creasing his brow. “Sometimes ….”

Ray stays quiet, waiting. 

“Sometimes I wish I were more like you,” Fraser finishes. 

Which is either the nicest or the strangest thing he’s ever said.

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

Fraser’s ‘yes’ reminds Ray of the advice Stephen gave him earlier in the day. It helped him get over his initial stage fright. Maybe it’d work for Fraser, too.

“Stephen said something to me.” 

Fraser arches an eyebrow, a look of confusion on his face. “Stephen?” He schools his features carefully into a blank expression, though not fast enough to hide the lowered brows, the flicker of jealousy that flashes in his eyes.

“The guy who looks like a reporter for Good Morning America. The one who played Shirley Wentworth? Good looking, dark hair, great smile — that guy.” 

Flicker, flicker — there it is again. That flare and fade of envy on Fraser’s face. It’s distracting, and confusing enough that Ray nearly loses his train of thought.

“Oh. What did he say to you?” 

Ray can tell that Fraser’s not sure what Stephen has to do with a discussion of inhibitions, or with Ray, for that matter. Patience, Frase. Getting to that.

“He said the first rule of improv is to say ‘Yes, And’. First you say yes to whatever your partner says or does, and then you give something back.”

“Ah.”

“It’s kinda like dancing.”

“I see.”

“It’s all about trusting each other.”

“As you say.”

Ray’s not at all sure he’s getting through to Fraser. “It helped me get up on stage,” he says. “Maybe if you, I dunno, said ‘Yes, And’ to more stuff it might help you find that middle gear.”

“Understood.” 

Fraser pauses to take a bite of pizza, chews carefully, and swallows before continuing.

“Although, as you are well aware, I am not by nature impulsive. Saying yes to whatever is thrown at you sounds foolhardy at least and dangerous at best.”

Says the guy who licks shoes and dives through second-story windows without a thought. 

“Whatever, forget it,” Ray says, wondering why he even bothers. Fraser is Fraser and will always be Fraser, end of discussion. “You’re fine the way you are, Frase,” he says, reaching out to touch the back of Fraser’s hand again. You’re one big, red, repressed mess but I love you anyway.”

“As do I, you, Ray.” To Ray’s surprise, Fraser turns his hand over, palm up, and squeezes back.

“Not like that,” Ray says. Though, yes, absolutely like that.

“I know.”

Diefenbaker whuffs at Fraser.

“Now? I told you to go before we left.”

Ruff.   


Fraser shakes his head. “It’s all that sugar you eat. You really should consider cutting back.” He gives Ray’s hand another squeeze. When he lets go, Ray instantly misses the warm, callused fingers, the firm touch. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave. Diefenbaker needs a walk.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ray says, but it’s a lie — he’s not sure of anything at this moment. 

He doesn’t know if they need to talk more about These Things They’re Not Talking About or pretend he hadn’t seen the looks on Fraser’s face, the jealousy, the wetted lips, and whatever else it is that Fraser is repressing. Ray’s getting hot and bothered just thinking about it.

Fraser stands, Dief at his heels, and Ray gets up to see them to the door. Fraser grabs his jacket and puts one hand on the door handle. He’s about to leave without another word but stops, turns towards Ray, and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For being you. One big, blond, uninhibited mess.” 

The smile on Fraser’s face makes Ray’s heart light up like there’s a thousand suns in his chest. Yeah, OK, he can live with that.

###

  
That night, the box-office take at The Second City disappears. Nobody saw the theft happen. There are no closed-circuit cameras, no signs of forced entry, and no fingerprints.  Whoever is messing with the theater has upped the stakes: extortion letters are bad enough, but it looks like they’re starting to make good on the threats. Time to get this case solved before anything worse happens.


	7. FORTY-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN

The next day, Ray’s trying to finish up some deskwork, fast as he can. Fraser’s hovering nearby, in his civvies again, blue plaid shirt and those damned tight jeans, but he’s got the hat with him this time. He keeps twirling it in his hands, waiting for Ray to finish so they can get over to the theater to follow up on the theft.

Fraser’s not just fiddling with the hat, though, he’s positively vibrating. Whether he realizes it or not, Fraser is sending looks and gestures and a whole bunch of other stuff towards Ray that can only be read as _serious interest —_ something that Fraser’s never done before _._ Since body language is a fact that Ray’s particularly sensitive to, he’s finding it all terribly distracting. It’s slowing him down and he keeps typing the wrong letters into the spaces on the form. He’s having to use so much white-out that the stuff’s making him high.

Ten minutes, seven swears, and two sticks of gum (to give his jaw something to do other than clench) later, Ray’s finally finished. In retrospect Ray wishes he’d sent Fraser for coffee or something to get that _serious interest_ body language out of his face long enough to get some work done.

Ray’s also pretty sure that Fraser’s not going to act on any of it because he’s too inhibited or whatever, but that only makes it harder to be around him. The cookie jar is right there, full of hot and chocolatey greatness, but there’s a padlock on the lid. This must be what Dief feels like when they pass a donut shop without going in, which is always.

“You don’t have any cookies, do you?”

“Unfortunately no, Ray. Why?’

“I got a craving.”

Fraser gives him a little sideways look.

“Perhaps this juicy red apple would satisfy your need for sugar while still remaining a healthy option?” he asks, holding up an apple that he got from who knows where.

“Never mind.” The only juicy red thing Ray wants right now isn’t on the menu. “So,” Ray says, changing the subject, I think we should go to the early show tonight at Second City. I got a hunch.”

Ray does have a hunch, and hunches are the way he rolls, but he also wants an excuse to see a show — he’s never been. Stella wasn’t keen on the idea and since they split up, work had kept him too busy for much of anything in the way of cultural entertainment. A theater date work night with Fraser sounded pretty good.

“It’s unfortunate we weren’t there last night,” Fraser says. “Perhaps we could have prevented the theft.”

“Yeah. Horse, barn door,” Ray agrees. “Still. Like I said, I got a feeling. Criminals always return to the scene of the crime. I’m thinking maybe our perp will show up.” And maybe Fraser might even laugh for once. It’s worth a shot anyway.

“Perhaps so. Whoever stole the money probably had a key. Likely someone in a position of authority, or former authority. Either that or they have an accomplice on the inside. Perhaps we will get lucky and catch them in another felonious act. Shall we go?”

Ray nods. “I’m all yours, Frase.” In so many ways, buddy. If you only knew.

“I’m glad to hear it, Ray.”

Ray decides to leave the other issue alone for now — the Issue They’re Not Discussing, and wait to see if Fraser says anything. Partners means sharing, right?

Yeah right, like that’s ever going to happen. Fraser’s about as likely to blurt out, _‘We both appear to be switch-hitters attracted to one another, would you care to play ball?’_ as the Cubs are to win the World Series. So instead of stepping up to the plate, they’re doomed to keep dancing around each other like a couple of awkward teenagers.

But then again, who knows — what Fraser is thinking at any given moment is anyone’s guess. The guy’s a mystery wrapped in an enchilada. Chinchilla. Whatever.

###

Ray is armed this time, ankle holster tucked under his pants. Just in case. Ray convinces Fraser to leave the Stetson in the GTO because everyone there except management still thinks he’s a student.

“The hat’s a dead giveaway,” Ray argues.

“Very well,” Fraser says, and tosses it into the trunk for safekeeping.

They move through the crowd towards the back row of seats, where they plan to stand and keep an eye on the audience. As they walk, Ray pulls his glasses out of his jacket pocket, rubs the finger smudges off with the tail of his shirt, then hooks the earpieces into place. Much better. He can actually see now.

Halfway to the back row, Fraser bumps into a short guy with curly red hair and pointy ears. He looks like a leprechaun. Leprechaun-guy smiles at Fraser, but the smile falls when he sees Ray standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Found your man, did you?” The leprechaun asks. “Good for you honey,” he squeezes Fraser’s arm. “You two enjoy the show.” He turns and skips off to say hi to other people he knows.

“What was that about?” Ray asks.

“Him? That’s Dan. He’s a fellow student.”

“Huh.”

To Ray, Dan definitely looks more like a ‘fellow on the make’ than a ‘fellow student’. Ray can’t blame him though. Everybody wants to get into Fraser’s pants, and why wouldn’t they, him being gorgeous and brilliant (and loyal, thrifty, strong, brave, courteous, and kind), even if he was also an infuriating asshole sometimes, so Ray lets it drop.

A few other people recognize Fraser and say hi to him.

“Why did someone just ask me if I want to buy a duck?” Ray asks.

“I believe it’s an improvisational game,” Fraser says. “And if you had actually gone to class you would know that.”

“Yeah and if I’d actually gone to class I wouldn’t have gotten to go onstage or talk to the cast.”

 “Fair enough.”

They choose spots at the back and off to one side, where they have a good view of people coming in or out.

The lights dim and the show begins. The plan is to stay in the theater long enough to watch the first sketch, then sneak out the door to investigate while everyone is distracted by the show.

Ray’s new friends Steve, Paul, and Stephen act out a scene where they’re having a guys’ poker night, hanging out, drinking beer. Ray is pretty sure it’s actual beer, because their cheeks are flushed.

Steve is playing a forty-year-old virgin who’s had zero experience with women. Steve’s friends are going out of their way to help him understand what being with a woman is like.

“You know how women’s breasts are so powdery?” Steve asks.

“No, man, they’re not like that at all,” Paul says.

“Here, grab my ass,” says Stephen, sticking his rear end out. “It’s like this, only softer and smaller.” Steve tenderly gropes Stephen's butt and the audience goes crazy.

Ray is laughing so hard he can barely breathe. He glances over at Fraser, who is is blushing red from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck, probably to his toes.

“They ought to make this into a movie,” Ray says. “I would pay to see that.”

###

After the first sketch they slip out, shouldering their way past an usher who scowls at them. Ray scowls back. They make their way to the offices through the quiet, mazelike corridors to investigate. If they’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it), they might catch their suspect doing something stupid.

They reach the Manager’s office and get stuck in the doorway for a second when they both try to walk through at the same time.  

“After you,” Fraser says as Ray squeezes past him.

Once inside, Fraser shuts the door so they won’t be seen snooping around. Ray opens cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that might give them a lead.

Ray finds a key in the desk and looks around for something that it might open. There’s a door next to a tall bookcase — which is a queer place to put a door.  Maybe it’s a closet? Or it might lead to an adjoining room. He tries the key: it fits. Behind the door is a narrow closet with a black wall safe built in.

“Hey Frase, look at this,” Ray says. He turns around and sees Fraser poking through the trash can, sniffing and — “For God’s sake, don’t lick that!”

And of course he licks it. A white plastic spoon with a glob of brown goo on it. Gross, disgusting, probably going to die from it.

“Hmm.”

“C’mon Fraser, you seriously gotta do that?” Ray twists the corners of his mouth downward.

“It’s peanut butter, Ray.”

“Somebody’s lunch. Even worse.” Ray sticks out his tongue in disgust and shudders.

Fraser drops the spoon back into the trash and raises his head, alert, eyes riveted on the door.

“Someone’s coming,” Fraser says. “We need to hide.”

“In here.” Ray grabs Fraser’s arm and drags him towards the closet.

“There’s barely enough room for one of us let alone two,” Fraser argues.

“You got a better idea?”

Fraser glances quickly around the windowless room, shakes his head. “No.”

For once Ray is glad there aren’t any windows because he really doesn’t feel like diving through plate glass right now. They squeeze inside and the door clicks shut behind them.

It’s a tight fit, and dark. A small amount of light leaks around the edges of the door but they can’t see out. They’re pressed so closely together that Ray can smell Fraser — no, correction, he can smell _them_ — Ray’s own hair gel and aftershave and sweat mixed with Fraser’s astringent RCMP-issue soap and a hint of wolf and mmm, whatever that is, some kind of masculine Fraser-smell … and …. He sniffs the air, yes, that’s nice, he could stand here inhaling that for awhile … why are they here again?

Oh, right. Fraser heard a noise. All Ray can hear is his and Fraser’s breathing, which isn’t surprising since they’re nearly face to face. Fraser’s warm, soft breath tickles Ray’s cheek and — well isn’t that interesting — now Ray can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, too. But nobody’s coming.

“I don’t hear nothin’…” Ray whispers.

“SHH!” Fraser clamps his hand over Ray’s mouth.

Ray is sorely tempted to lick Fraser’s hand like Paul did to Stephen, partly to be funny and partly because he wants to know what Fraser tastes like, but then — he hears it. Footsteps. Kind of clunky, kind of squeaky. A man’s? Or someone wearing soft shoes, at least.

They hear the handle of the office door turn. A click, then a creak as the door opens on worn hinges. Somebody’s definitely in the room. A jingle of keys. A drawer. Then another. There’s a thunk, a shuffle of paper. Footsteps again, another squeak, the clunk of a door closing, then — silence.

After a long minute Fraser lowers his palm from Ray’s mouth, leaving his lips burning from the touch of hot skin.

“I recognize the sound of those footsteps,” Fraser says. “Yesterday I bumped into a woman dressed in an exterminator’s uniform, and her shoes sounded like that.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“So our prime suspect’s a woman, then.”

“Possibly. We should go after her.”

Ray reaches for the door handle and. Nothing. It’s locked. From the outside.

“Locked,” Fraser says.

“Thank you, Mr. Obvious.”

It’s getting hot in here, pressed against Fraser’s body from shoulder to knee. Ray’s glasses are fogging up and his frustration level is starting to rise along with his temperature.

“Pick the lock, Fraser.”

“I’m afraid my right arm is pinned behind your back and I can’t quite reach my pocket knife with my free hand.”

And so it is. How had he not noticed Fraser’s right arm practically bolted to his shoulder blades?

“You’ll have to get it,” Fraser says. “It’s in the right front pocket of my jeans.”

Oh God. Ray swallows. “You sure?” he asks, startled by how rough his own voice sounds.

“Unless you want to be stuck like this all night, yes.”

All night pressed against Fraser, hot and bothered, in a closet .... Um. Jesus. He totally wants that and totally does _not_ want that and his brain is shorting out. He tries to shimmy his shoulders, shake off the thought, but there’s no room to move. Get a grip, Ray.

“Ok. Here goes.” Ray slips his hand down between them but hesitates when his fingertips reach the top of the pocket.

“Just do it, Ray.”

Ray wiggles his fingers into the pocket, sliding them in and it’s tight, so tight that the thick denim and rough stitching scrapes the back of his hand. Deeper into the pocket his fingers go until they hit something hard.

Fraser hisses and jerks his hips. “Ah. That’s not the knife, Ray.”

Holy fuck. “Sorry sorry sorry,” Ray says, yanking his fingers back. Fraser’s dick. Hard. Under his hand. A rush of heat shoots down Ray’s spine. His pants suddenly feel way too tight and he’s pretty sure his own thickening cock is pressing against Fraser’s thigh and they’re both turned on and _what the fuck does that even mean_ and everything is going to Hell.

“Please move your hand a little to the right,” Fraser says. His breathing is heavy and _Christ_ _that’s hot_ and focus focus focus.

Ray tries a second time. He bumps the hard thing again by mistake and Fraser actually _growls_. Another jolt of lightning goes straight to Ray’s dick and the damn thing twitches into Fraser’s thigh and they both gasp.

“I meant ..,” Fraser says, his voice rougher than Ray’s ever heard it before, “... _my_ right.”

“Sorry.” Christ, could this get any more embarrassing. Ray tries again and finally gets the knife free. “Third time’s a charm,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Ray opens the knife and tries to pick the lock, but gives up after a minute.

“It’s an automatic steel deadbolt, Fraser. It’s not going anywhere.”

Ray manages to fold the knife closed without slicing off any fingers and puts it into his own front pocket. No way in Hell is he going anywhere near Fraser’s pants again if he can help it, even though part of him keeps insisting that’s _exactly_ what he’d like do.

“You’re going to have to shoot the lock,” Fraser says.

Shit. The only gun he’s wearing is in his.… “Ankle holster,” Ray croaks. “Can’t reach it.”

“Perhaps if I kneel down I may be able to unpin my arm and retrieve it for you.”

Kneel down. God. Ray had asked the universe if this could get any worse, and now he’s deeply regretting that.

“Ready?” Fraser asks.

No. He’s never going to be ready for this.

“Do it.”

Fraser wriggles, squirms, and slides downward, and Ray can feel all of Fraser’s body, hard bony parts alternating with soft, warm ones, moving over every inch of skin through their clothes. Ray leans forward to make room for Fraser’s trapped arm to slide free. And why, yes, Fraser old buddy old pal, that is my rock-hard dick pressing against your thigh, and oh look, it’s digging into your chest now, and finally, _oh_ _God_ , the side of your face, in case you had any doubts.

How on earth he’s going to survive this, Ray hasn’t a clue.

Fraser’s forehead ends up pressed against Ray’s crotch. Of course.

Ray’s breathing goes ragged and he throws his head back against the wall. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste blood. His fingernails dig into his sweating palms, hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars and tries to focus on the pain even as the top of Fraser’s head is bumping and rubbing against him. It’s taking his last ounce of willpower not to imagine plunging his fingers into Fraser’s hair, pulling that sweet mouth against his aching cock, and shooting off right here.

“Hurry,” Ray gasps. He’s seriously not going to be able to hold off much longer, humiliation be damned.

“Working on it,” Fraser says. “I’m having some difficulty.”

Ray coughs on a laugh. _He’s_ having some difficulty. Fraser doesn’t know the half of it. Or maybe he does, which is even worse.

Hot fingertips brush Ray’s lower calf. Fraser lifts the cuff of his pants, sliding his palms up, up until, finally, he unlatches the gun from its holster. Fraser wriggles his way back to standing again, agonizingly slowly, nearly sending Ray over the edge. Pure torture. That’s what this is.

Ray feels the press of the small gun into his right hand. He switches off the safety. Fraser raises his fingers to plug his eardrums.

There’s just enough light seeping in around the edges of the door for Ray to see where to aim.

“On three,” Ray says, and Fraser nods.“One, two …” BANG.

The lock blows apart and they shove against the door, slamming it open with their bodies.

“Go,” Fraser says, “Find her. Long blonde hair, fiftyish, emaciated, one metre sixty — I mean, five foot three. I’ll finish here and catch up with you.”

“Got it.” Ray says, and runs out of the office. Well, not runs, exactly. He sort of waddles, limps, stumbles awkwardly — whatever it is you call it when you’ve got a boner so hard you could chip a tooth on it.

###

Fraser watches Ray’s disappearing back as he vanishes down the hallway, bootheels pounding on the wooden floor.

He flicks his fingertips across his left eyebrow once, twice, in a futile attempt to erase the shame he feels flaming across his cheeks. It’s his fault Ray ran.

Naturally Ray wishes to do his duty and catch the criminal, but Fraser knows he is fleeing from Fraser as much as he is pursuing the suspect. He had bolted, like someone trying to escape an imminent explosion.

And Fraser must take full responsibility for that. His utter failure to control his physical responses in their brief moment of confinement is what sent Ray running, and he is fully aware of that mortifying fact. Fraser’s heart aches to think that he has upset Ray — this wondrous, electric being who makes his heart sing, his head spin, and ties his body in knots of frustration.

That Ray had not been openly disgusted by Fraser’s shameful state of arousal was proof of his basic goodness and of the closeness of their friendship. They trusted each other, even in the most trying circumstances.

As for Ray’s own rather dramatic bodily response to their physical closeness, the explanation was simple and clinical. It was, Fraser decides, a mere autonomic reaction, a purely physiological response; any normal person would have responded in similar fashion, much like Meg had when handcuffed to him on the train despite their best efforts to remain aloof and professional.

But.

What if there were more to it? What if Ray’s aching need, the waves of heat rolling off of him, the scent of sex leaking through his clothes, had been more than a simple bodily reaction? What if his response had been emotionally motivated?  What if it had been … the truth?

Ray was a man of few words and often prone to outright deception, no doubt a defense mechanism to protect the gentle soul underneath. But where words failed him, his gestures, his physicality, the muscle, skin, and sinew of his being spoke for him, loudly, eloquently, and with a breathtaking honesty. Ray’s body never lied. His actions always spoke the unvarnished, unfettered truth. And in that closet, in that moment, Ray’s body had revealed him, fully clothed yet laid bare in that dark and quiet space.

Simply put, Ray wanted him.

The realization is dizzying. Intoxicating.

He wonders what Ray is thinking right now, and whether he had any inkling how difficult obtaining the gun had been for Fraser. How Fraser had wanted to bury his face in that space where Ray’s hip joined his thigh, to drown in scent and touch, to nip and lick and bite ….

But, no, Ray had fled. If he had wanted to act on his feelings, Fraser reasons, Ray would have. Since he had not done so at any point in their relationship to date, not even in the heat of the moment, it is clear that any reciprocation on his — Fraser’s — part is unwelcome.

In conclusion, any response by Fraser other than a respectful pretense of ignorance would be unchivalrous. Or to put it in Ray’s colorful vernacular, “not buddies”. And Fraser desperately wants to remain buddies with Ray. Very much so.

As Fraser is completing the final edit of this thesis in his head, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, he spots them: two long blonde hairs on the desktop. He pulls out his handkerchief and plucks them from the desk. The hairs are resting atop a printed note. It is another threat letter.

At that moment, Ray returns from his quest, empty handed, dejected, and breathless.


	8. KEEP IT IN THE CLOSET

“No dice. I couldn’t find her,” Ray says, panting.

Ray had run through the hallways, tried every door, but they’d all been locked for the night. He’d looked everywhere, but saw no one. Everyone had either gone backstage or skedaddled. They’d lost her. The only good part in all this is that by the time he makes it back to the office,  Ray’s raging hard-on isn’t raging anymore, thank God.

Fraser is still poking around, sniffing at things and probably licking stuff, too. 

“I suspect she’s long gone by now,” Fraser agrees. “I did find these.” He’s holding a white handkerchief with two long blonde hairs pinched in it. “I found them on the desk, which is curious. The current managers are all men with short gray or dark hair. And there’s this.” He points to the letter but doesn’t touch it.

“She was here, then. That was her.”

“It would seem that this confirms it. Now we must ascertain who she is, and stop her. We also need to alert the theater.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray sees something dart from the trash can. He points his gun at it.

“It’s a only rat, Ray. No doubt attracted to the trash.”

Gross. Ray lowers his gun. He flicks the safety on, hikes his foot up onto a chair, snaps the gun back into its holster. Fraser’s staring at him, watching every move. It’s making Ray hot again and he doesn’t know whether he should say anything about The Closet Incident or pretend it never happened, or pounce on Fraser or what. It’s all very confusing.

Ray reaches into his pocket, pulls out Fraser’s knife, and hands it back to him. He’s careful not to let their fingers touch because any contact with Fraser at this point would be like licking an electrical socket. 

“What do we do now?” Ray asks. It’s the mother of all loaded questions.

“I think we should locate the rest of the cast and the crew, to ascertain whether they saw anyone fitting the suspect’s description,” Fraser says. His voice is calm, even, and professional.

No mention of the Awkward Closet of Almost-Sex, then. Or how they were  _ both _ so turned on and maybe, just maybe, they should talk about that?

Ray folds his arms and raises his left eyebrow. No? Ok. Right. Yet another thing shoved into the Not-Talking-About-It file. Which has gotten so big it’s turning into a filing cabinet. If they keep going at this rate they’re gonna have a whole closet full of Stuff That’s Not Being Said. 

If Fraser doesn’t get over his damned inhibited self soon and at least talk to him, Ray decides, he’s going to do something about it. Something’s got to give. 

“Sure, Frase. Whatever you say.”

###

Backstage, the cast and crew are hanging out, laughing and talking. Ray wrinkles his nose and scans the room. They weren’t kidding — there is a nasty stink back here, like something died. A pile of costumes is tossed into one corner, and a filthy old puke-colored sofa — the infamous couch, he guesses — is pushed up against the far wall. Ray notices that absolutely no one is sitting on it, and he keeps away from it.

“Promise me you will NOT lick the couch, Fraser!” Ray warns. “I swear you’ll die for real.”

“Understood,” Fraser says, and he goes looking for a manager to tell them about the note they found, and the blonde hairs. 

Ray hopes to God he keeps his mouth shut about the closet, except that sooner or later they’re going to have to explain why the door is blown to smithereens. 

Welsh isn’t going to like getting the bill for that, no sir. Ray can hear him now — “Would you care to explain how the lock was destroyed from  _ inside _ the closet, Detective?” — but Ray can’t think about that right now.

Ray starts asking questions of the cast and crew. At this point he’s not too worried about blowing his cover since he and Fraser have a pretty good idea who they’re looking for, and it’s not one of them.

“Hey, did any strange people come back here?” Ray asks.

Everyone in the room raises their hands and a laugh ripples through the group.

“If you mean anyone we don’t know,” a man says — it’s that prick Darren Nichols again — “no, they didn’t.” 

“I’m looking for a woman. Fiftyish, long blonde hair. Seen anyone like that?”

A chorus of ‘no,’ ‘nope,’ and ‘nuh-uhs’ fills the air. So that would be a no, then.

Amy peels herself away from a knot of people and bounces over to Ray. Great. What’s she gonna do now — try to get him up on the roof for an orgy? He perches his fingertips on his hips and eyes her, on guard for whatever she throws at him. 

“Hey Ray,” she says, and giggles. “Ooh, that rhymes. Hey Ray, hey Ray, won’t you come out and play?”

Well that’s something, at least — she’s dropped the Twinkie bullshit.

“Amy.”

“I hear from Stephen you’re quite the promising little actor.”

“Huh.” She’s being nice — well, nicer, anyway. This is new. It makes him uneasy.

“Oh, and I totally meant it about the threesome,” she says, winking exaggeratedly at him.

Annnd … there it is — the Amy he’d met the other day.

“Where is Stephen, by the way?” Ray asks, ignoring the bait.

“He took off, back to his new little wifey. He’s completely domesticated now.”

Paul appears behind Amy and slips his arms around her waist. Ray has never been so glad to see another person.

“Amy. There you are,” Paul says. “I wondered where you’d skulked off to. Still hazing the newbies?”

“Who, me?” She flutters her eyelashes innocently. “Wanna help?”

“Hi,” Ray says to Paul, grateful that someone’s running interference with his goofy girlfriend. “I heard the box office got ripped off last night. You know anything about that?” 

“Not a clue.” Paul shrugs his shoulders. “I hope they get the money back, though — it’s nearly payday, such as it is.”

Ray tries another tack. “I heard a bunch of Canadians took over not too long ago. Maybe they ran off with it?” he jokes.

“Ooh, don’t get me started on the Canucks,” Paul says, making a sour face. “I nearly quit when they fired all those people.”

“Yeah?” that’s interesting. Maybe some of the actors are involved, after all, if there’s that much resentment floating around since the takeover.

“I stuck around though — obviously.”

“What changed your mind?” Ray asks.

“Usual reasons — my job is here, and my friends,” Paul says, looking fondly at Amy.  “Most of the time I try not to worry about what the suits are up to. If anyone asks, I tell them I’m here for the free beer and to fuck shit up.” 

“Fuck shit up?” Ray raises an eyebrow.

“Out there,” Paul waves vaguely in the direction of the stage. “I love messing with the audience and the other players’ heads. Improv is all about taking risks.” 

Another man sidles over to their little group. 

“Sedaris, are you harassing the new guy again?” It’s Steve, flushed and smiling from the beer and the excitement of a successful show. To Ray, he says, “Ignore her. She’s a bad influence.” 

“That’s me,” Amy grins.

“So, Ray,” Steve begins, and Ray smiles at that. The guy actually remembered his name. “What did you think of the show?”

“It was great,” Ray says, fibbing, since they’d only stayed for the one sketch. “Are you always that funny?”

“Only on stage,” Steve smiles. “Once you get to know me you’ll realize I’m a total bore.”

Paul pretends to fall asleep, snoring loudly, until Steve slaps him on the arm.

“Huh, what?” Paul wakes up. “Sorry, I drifted off there for a moment, you were so boring. As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted by Mr. Insipid here — about the free beer and fucking shit up — want to come for a drink? We’re all heading over to the bar. Rumor has it, one of the managers brought pizza.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Ray shakes his head. “I have a day job.” A beer did sound good about now but, as usual, duty barked.

“You sure?” Steve asks. “I won’t lie — the beer tastes like watered-down piss, and if you drink enough of it you’ll only be able to see the color green for the next twenty-four hours, but it’s free. It’s pretty much how they pay us.” 

“Maybe another time.”

“Suit yourself,” Paul says. “More for us. Onward! To the pizza and beer!” As a group, they leave.

Fraser catches Ray’s eye. He’s got the manager with him and is headed back to the offices. Ray follows.

The threat letter reads: “You had your chance and blew it. Tomorrow night’s improvised musical will be positively explosive”.

###

By cross-referencing the list of recently fired employees with fifty-something blonde women, they finally narrow the possibilities down to two suspects, both former Assistant Managers: Ruth Janelle and Karen McIntosh. Fraser draws a quick sketch but the current Assistant Manager doesn’t recognize the woman in the drawing — he hadn’t been there long enough to know either of them.

A background check reveals that Karen McIntosh moved to Edmonton three months ago and Ruth Janelle can’t be found. They go to search Ruth’s flat at the Morningwood Apartments but it looks like she’s been evicted. No one has any idea where she might be.

Fraser and Ray are so busy working on the case that they don’t get a break. There’s barely time to eat, let alone time to talk about the Thing They’re Still Not Discussing And Maybe Won’t Ever.

Work keeps them busy, the tone is professional, and there’s so much going on that any tension between them, well, they ignore it. 

‘Cause everything's just peachy. 


	9. DISCO INFERNO

It’s the night of the improvised musical. The advanced students will be performing alongside some of the seasoned cast, and the 27th is ready for the show — or the showdown, whatever happens. Ray’s ready, at least. He’s getting tired of the cat-and-mouse game and is more than psyched to take a bitch down tonight.

Ray’s wearing his regular detective outfit this evening: dark slacks, boots, glasses, black T-shirt, blazer, cuffs tucked into his back pocket, badge, two holsters, two guns. Fraser’s in his Mountie uniform, full glory red serge. A blue-and-white is on standby, and a bomb squad with sniffer K-9 unit has checked out the entire theater and given it the all clear. Anyone stupid enough to try something tonight is going to find themselves neck-deep in cops.

“Where’s Dief?” Ray asks.

“He’s not much of a bomb-sniffer. More of a doughnut-sniffer,” Fraser says. “I left him at the Consulate where he can keep Turnbull out of trouble.”

Ray and Fraser check in on the cast before the show. The musical-improv students and mainstage cast are all in one big dressing room, fixing their hair, putting on makeup — even the guys. They’re all dressed in sparkly spandex bell-bottomed 1970s disco outfits, the fabric so shiny and brightly colored it hurts to look at them.

None of the cast and crew seem surprised to learn that two of the new students turned out to be a cop and a Mountie. Chicago is a weird city, and improv is weird squared, so they’re rolling with it.

In one corner of the dressing room, Paul Dinello perches on a stool in his turquoise blue outfit, killing time, plucking an acoustic guitar. A stuffed squirrel is, inexplicably, glued to the side of the instrument.

“My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus,” he sings, “now I see a cross and I fall to pieces … It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes ... and Jesus better watch his back.”

Yeah, OK, Ray has to admit that’s pretty funny, even if it is kinda blasphemous. He glances up to see if a bolt of lightning might shoot through the ceiling and smite Paul, or whatever, and is relieved to see only stained acoustic tiles.

Stephen appears at Ray’s shoulder, dressed from head to toe in red, white, and blue spandex, and points an accusing finger at Paul.

“Philistine,” Stephen says. “Or should I say, ‘drunken idiot’?”

Paul stops playing and lets the guitar’s shoulder strap take the weight of the instrument.

“You’re so full of yourself,” he says, twisting his mouth and eyebrows into a mocking, arrogant expression. “Oh, look at me, I went to _acting_ school. With your pompadour and your turtleneck and resting your chin on your knuckles like that.” Paul strikes a pose, his elbow on his other hand, chin resting on his fist.

“You know that’s against the rules,” Stephen says, smiling. “You’re not allowed to ridicule me without Amy’s help.”

“Don’t tell me the rules, Stephen,” Paul says. “I don’t give a fuck about rules. And anyway, she is here, so there.”

Amy is indeed standing right behind Stephen, dressed in a gold, curve-hugging outfit, mimicking his movements and mocking him mercilessly. At least she’s not bothering with Ray, for a change.

Stephen turns around and catches her in the act.

“Love you!” she says, batting her eyelashes.

Stephen grabs Amy in a hug. “Yo tambien te quiéro.”

From where Ray’s standing, they all seem to be getting along fine, despite the teasing and given that a whackjob threatened to blow the place up tonight. Go figure. Maybe that qualifies as normal around here, no big deal. Ray hopes it’s nothing, that the threats are a false alarm, but you never could tell with a disgruntled former employee bent on revenge.

Paul hops off the stool and walks over to Fraser.

“Oh, hey can you guys do me a favor?” Paul asks. “Put this guitar in the wings, stage left. They’ll need it for the show. Thanks.”

Fraser takes the guitar, and together Ray and Fraser walk down the hall, past other dressing and storage rooms, until they eventually reach the mainstage.

###

 

Disco-funk music drifts from the theater speakers. It sets an upbeat mood, helping get the audience get pumped for the show as they file in.

 

THESE. ARE. THE. GOOD. TIMES!

LEAVE. YOUR. CARES. BE-HIND.

 

 _Good times. Ha_. Ray scratches the back of his neck. Maybe if they could just collar this idiot suspect and get on with their lives.

Ray and Fraser stand guard in the wings, stage left, for several minutes. They scan the crowd, watching the sound tech, the lighting tech, the ushers. Everything seems normal so far, until Fraser checks his wristwatch. It’s twenty minutes past when the show was supposed to start and the audience is getting restless.

“The cast should be here by now,” he says, wrinkling his brow, “and there’s no sign of the stage manager. I fear something is wrong. Ray, will you please look in on them? I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

Ray does a silent nod-salute yes and ducks behind the false-wall that runs the length of the stage. He finds himself in a dark, narrow corridor. He feels his way forward, fingers tracing the backs of the rough boards. He can hear the muffled notes of _Brick House_ thumping through the loudspeakers.

 

SHE KNOWS SHE'S BUILT, AND KNOWS HOW TO PLEASE

SURE ENOUGH TO KNOCK A STRONG MAN TO HIS KNEES

 

He’s nearly reached the far end of the corridor when he gets tangled in the heavy curtains that hang at the edge of the stage. He kicks and flails his arms around, trying to shove them aside, which only makes things worse. Stupid curtains are smothering him, pissing him off, and blocking his vision so he can’t see where he’s going. When he finally tears himself loose, he finds himself face to face with a haggard-looking fifty-something woman dressed in dirty coveralls.

Startled, she jerks her head and a dark wig falls to the floor revealing long blonde hair. It’s Ruth Janelle.

“If you’re looking for the cast, don’t bother,” she says, her voice raspy. “I’ve taken care of them.”

Ray raises his fists to make a move but freezes the instant he hears the click. She has a gun. Pointed at his head. _Fuck_ — he wasn’t fast enough, and now he’s in deep, deep shit.

“You wouldn’t hit a lady, would you?” she snarls.

“Depends,” Ray says, lowering his chin and locking eyes with her. “If they’re pointing a gun at me. What’d you do to the actors?”

“Shut up and put your hands where I can see them, pretty boy.”

Ray raises his palms. “You don’t wanna do this, Ruth. I’m a cop.”

“I said zip it. I’ve got nothing to lose. They took everything — my job, my home, my friends, my health. I’m getting what’s owed me, and you’re going to help.”

This is _not_ what Ray wants to hear right now. ‘Nothing left to lose’ is a recipe for dead.

“Hands behind your head,” she says, coughing as she talks.

Ray puts his hands behind his neck.

“Now turn around _real_ _slow_ ,” her voice is low and dangerous. “If you make a sound or so much as twitch, I’ll shoot.”

Ray turns, watching her from the corner of his eye for as long as he can until his back is to her. He just needs her to make one mistake, one little mistake .…

He sees Fraser in the wings on the opposite side of the stage, guitar in hand, standing stock still. Ray stares straight at him, silently begging for help and oh, the irony, ABBA’s “S.O.S.” is playing on the sound system.

Janelle spots Fraser and talks directly to him. “The audience expects a show, Mountie. You need to sing. Now.”

Fraser raises his hands, guitar still held in one of them, in a placating gesture.

“Ma’am, if you’ll let him go I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement .…”

For fuck’s sake, Fraser, just give her what she wants.

“The arrangement is this — ” she snaps, “you sing, we leave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

Please don’t do anything stupid Fraser, not now, please, please, please.

“Sing for the people, Mountie,” she says, shoving the gun next to Ray’s temple, “unless you want to see his pretty little head blown off.”

 _Shit shit shit_ . Ray’s eyes drill into Fraser’s. _Do something_.

Ruth yanks Ray’s collar with her left hand and starts backing them away, still holding him hostage, gun pressed to his head, as the ABBA song finishes.

When the first verses of _Lady Marmalade_ drift through the speakers, Ray’s pounding heart nearly stops. _Fuck fucking Jesus fuck_ . It would have to be a song like that, a song no way in hell Fraser’s going to sing. Somebody up there must really hate him. _I’m a dead man._

Fraser’s face turns a deeper shade of red than his uniform. He’s gone ramrod straight, his body rigid. The song keeps playing, and Fraser stands there, still staring at them, not moving, like a deer trapped in the headlights.

“ _Sing_!” she barks.

Ray feels the barrel of the gun digging into his skin, and at the same time he’s nearly tripping over his own feet as Ruth drags him backwards. This is not looking good at all.

And then, suddenly, Fraser’s body is shaking, wracked with a violent shudder, his knees giving out like he’s been shot, and Ray desperately wants to run to him but of course he can’t.

Just as quickly, Fraser is transformed. He’s moving now, dropping into a rock star stance: legs apart, head tilted back, guitar slung slow. Ray barely recognizes him, the way he’s holding his body is so different than the Fraser he knows — it’s like he’s been Star Trek teleported away and replaced by somebody else. And then Fraser does it. He opens his mouth and sings. Loud.

“VOULEZ-VOUS COUCHER AVEC MOIS, CE SOIR?

VOULEZ-VOUS COUCHER AVEC MOIS?”

He’s _belting_ out the words, knocking out power chords on the guitar, gyrating his hips, all the while striding steadily and slowly towards Ruth and Ray in the wings, never taking his eyes off either of them.

The audience goes nuts, clueless about the real drama going on right in front of them. They howl with laughter at the rockstar-Mountie playing a guitar with a squirrel on it, singing at the top of his lungs. Whistles, claps, and cheers nearly drown out the music.

Fraser keeps going, bringing the song to a crescendo:

“...MORE, MORE, MORE!”

Fraser’s giving it all he’s got, and then some. If Ray weren’t about to get capped, he might even be impressed right now.

And then, out of nowhere, the voice of God himself — it’s Darren Nichols.

“You’re not allowed back here,” he says. “Who are you?”  

“Huh?” Ruth turns to glance at Darren for a split second — which is all Ray needs.

Big mistake, blondie. Ray knocks the gun out of her hand, doubles over, elbows her in the gut, kicks his foot backwards and sends all three of them — Ray, Darren, and Ruth — sprawling to the floor.

The gun hits the ground and goes off.

“Ray!” Fraser shouts. He sets the guitar down and runs.

By the time Fraser reaches them, Ray has kicked the gun out of reach, thrown Ruth face down onto the floor, yanked her hands behind her back, cuffed her, and is reciting the Miranda while a new song, _Hot Stuff_ , blasts through the loudspeakers.

Darren meanwhile has scooted ten feet backwards, scrabbling on his butt the entire way, face contorted with shock. His upper right arm is bleeding and he’s staring at it. From here it looks like a graze to Ray, but the poor guy is going to need a medic. Goddamned little prick had just saved his life, which means Ray owes him at least grudging respect. This irritates Ray more than he wants to admit, but there it is.

Darren screams at Fraser. “You! Why is it I always get hurt when you’re around?! How many of you are, there, anyway?!”

He’s obviously delirious — the man needs some serious help — and a box of lithium pudding-pops maybe.

Fraser bends down to where Darren is sitting. “It’s a superficial wound,” he says in his steadiest, most reassuring voice. “Assistance is on the way. You’re going to be fine.” He offers to wrap Darren’s injury with his handkerchief but Darren yells at him.

“Don’t touch me!” He waves Fraser away, and presses a hand to the cut to staunch the bleeding.

Fraser backs off, then picks up the dropped gun with his handkerchief.

A second later the fire alarm goes off and all Hell breaks loose.

A swarm of improv students and cast members including Stephen, Steve, Paul, and Amy appears out of nowhere. They’re still in disco costumes, and most of them are carrying weapons — prop swords and battle axes, sewing scissors — basically anything they could grab. Half of them run to the exits to help usher the audience out.

Fraser corners Steve, who’s holding a trident. “Will you please see to it that Mr. Nichols gets immediate medical attention?” he says, his voice urgent, gesturing to Darren.

“Of course,” Steve nods. He drops the trident, helps Darren up, and heads for the exit, promising to call an ambulance.

“There’s a bomb in Rehearsal Room B!” Amy yells, tugging on Fraser’s arm.

“You’ll never make it in time,” Janelle says, her voice muffled by the floor. “You’ve got about five minutes if you’re lucky.”

Before the words are completely out of her mouth, Fraser hands the gun to Ray and sprints off to find the bomb.

Ray makes sure everyone gets out and turns Janelle and her gun over to the waiting blue and white. He runs back inside with the bomb squad to look for Fraser.

Rehearsal Room D, A, no, C, no, where the hell is B? Shit — where is it? There!

They find Fraser as he is disarming the bomb, cutting wires with his knife as the timer counts down to zero.

“It wasn’t a real bomb,” Fraser says, snapping his knife shut. “A fake. She hid it inside that toolbox,” he says, pointing to a nearby discarded metal box. “I suspect that’s how she got it past the explosives team.”

Thank heaven for small mercies. It’s a good start, but the night’s far from over.


	10. THE COLBERT RAPPORT

Outside the theater, small groups of people huddle together on the sidewalk, talking in hushed tones. Red and blue lights flash against the brick walls of the building, casting an eerie, flickering glow into the night and making the sequins on the performers’ costumes sparkle.

Uniforms are taking statements from the audience while Ray goes to question the cast. 

“Hey!” Ray jogs over to them. “You guys OK?”

“Yeah. We’re fine,” Paul says. “A little shaken up, but basically all right.”

“What happened?” Ray asks.

“We got locked in the dressing room,” Steve says.

“How’d you get out?”

“We improvised,” Amy says, laughing. “We climbed out the window. Lucky for us we were on the first floor. Then we pulled the fire alarm and you know the rest.”

“We totally need a singing Mountie in our act,” Steve says. “Tell your friend if he ever decides to give up police work, he’s welcome to be in our show.”

“I’ll do that,” Ray says, looking over to where Fraser is surrounded by people wanting to talk to him. 

As usual Fraser is the hero of the moment. Ray could be jealous about that, since he was the one who’d had a gun to his head and had actually collared Ruth Janelle, but what would be the point? Fraser had done the singing thing — and looked like a rock star doing it — so he’d earned the right to his fifteen minutes of fame. 

Ray can tell that all the attention is making Fraser uncomfortable, though, because he excuses himself and walks behind the caution tape where they can’t get to him anymore. Fraser stands off to one side, tucked in the shadow of an awning, watching. 

###

Fraser’s eyes wander over the scene before him, unfocused. He’s not actually looking at what’s happening anymore, temporarily allowing himself to get lost in his own thoughts. He shelters in the shadows, seeking a moment’s respite from the attention he seems to have garnered. All told, the entire affair has rattled him and he desperately needs a minute’s peace to sort through the thoughts swirling around his brain.

Ray had disarmed and apprehended their suspect in a satisfactory manner. The bomb had turned out to be a fake, and the only injury sustained was the minor shoulder graze that Darren Nichols had suffered in the scuffle.

However, Fraser had had to violate his personal moral code to do the singing, although in light of what happened, his code seemed completely irrelevant under the circumstances. That particular breach of personal ethics fell, on balance, under the category of “good”, considering the outcome. 

But he still felt shaken by it, as though the ground under his feet had shifted somehow, the way river ice creaked and groaned at the start of the spring thaw. On that stage he had felt a nearly unbearable tension in his body, every muscle fibre and tendon drawn taut as a bowstring. It was a wonder the neck of the guitar hadn’t snapped from the pressure of his grip. 

He had been holding his breath, too, so long he nearly felt faint. Fraser’s mind had gone blank for a second and then his survival instincts kicked in and snapped his world into sharp focus — on Ray, his Ray, the only thing that mattered. Then a shudder, a rush, a roar, a blinding light, and the rest was a blur. On the other side he’d found his friend, safe, unharmed, and completely in control of the situation despite Fraser’s momentary lapse of sanity.

Ray had been nearly killed right in front of him — again — and Fraser’s hesitation in singing was to blame. Waves of guilt wash through him. Fraser hangs his head and rubs his temples to push back the prickling sensation at the corners of his eyes and to ease the stubborn tension that’s contributing to a burgeoning headache.

And then, there is the ultimate, inescapable issue sitting in the forefront of his mind, like a flashing neon light: the question of his shifting relationship to Ray. 

He remembers as though it were yesterday that moment in the precinct hallway when Ray had first said he loved Fraser, if only symbolically, and how easily the words “And I, you, Ray” had rolled off his own tongue. The very sentiment Fraser had been unable to express to his father — the person he had loved most in the world — had spilled from his lips towards Ray, unimpeded.

Words were one thing. But underneath the words was something else, something far more dangerous in its potential for ruination: an unmistakable frisson of attraction, of desire, of — dare he admit it —  _ lust _ that crackles between them whenever they are in each others’ presence now. How far and in what manner to pursue that, and whether it was wise to even consider exploring it at all, is another kettle of arctic char altogether.

Fraser looks towards where Ray is standing, surrounded by his entourage of new friends and once again, the all too familiar pang of loneliness pierces his chest. One of the men catches Fraser looking at him; it’s one of the handsome dark-haired gentlemen — Stephen, Ray had said his name was. Stephen pulls away from the group and approaches Fraser. 

Despite Fraser’s attempts to shut off contact with the outside world if only for a moment, the red uniform invited such interactions. He shouldn’t be surprised, but for once he wished he’d donned the blue instead. Better camouflage might have allowed him a little more time to think.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Stephen says. He stops a respectful distance from Fraser and extends a hand. “My name’s Stephen. Stephen Colbert.” 

Fraser shakes his hand. A polite American, how refreshing.

“Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” 

“That was brave, what you did for your friend,” Stephen says, “getting up on stage like that and singing, with a gun pointed at his head no less. That was some of the most impressive improv I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s my partner,” Fraser says, his voice quiet. “I would do anything to protect him.” He instinctively feels he can trust Stephen with this bit of deeply personal information. There’s an air of humility and kindness about this man that invites confidences.

Stephen nods. “You did more than protect him, though.”

“I was merely doing my job,” Fraser says, wondering where this conversation is heading.

“Of course you were. But I believe something else happened up there,” Stephen says. “Something important. May I tell you a story?”

Fraser studies him. A story. If Stephen’s stories are anything like Fraser’s, a life-lesson is about to be imparted. He nods. 

“Yes.” 

“I used to be so serious. I had this unbreakable rule about never laughing on stage. One time we were performing with the touring company, and Amy there,” he points to where she’s holding court, surrounded by other cast members and students, including Ray, “she grins at me in the middle of a scene. Turns out she had put in a set of really disgusting false teeth, and it took me totally by surprise. I lost it. I couldn’t stop laughing,” Stephen smiles at the memory.

“So we finished the scene and I blew offstage in a blind rage. I was so mad I locked myself in the bathroom like a teenage girl, and banged my head against a wall. The whole time, Amy and Paul, who were determined to get me to loosen up if it was the last thing they ever did, kept mocking me mercilessly. And you know what happened?” Stephen asks.

Fraser shakes his head. “No. What happened?”

“I broke. Shattered. My ego was shot to hell. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. They completely won, and I’m forever grateful that they did.”

Fraser is silent, considering this.

“I learned to love the bomb,” Stephen says, concluding his story.

“What bomb?” Fraser asks, alarmed. “Is there another bomb somewhere?”

“No, sorry, no, not a literal bomb — the emotional kind. Failure. Humiliation. Being vulnerable. I learned to say ‘Yes’.”

Fraser nods. He is unsure of the relevance of this story to the situation at hand, but it would be churlish to dismiss what is so clearly a gesture of kindness on Stephen’s part.

“Just think about it, OK? Oh, and thanks for saving the theater,” Stephen adds. “We all owe you.”

“No thanks necessary. I was simply doing my duty. But I do appreciate the story.”

“Let’s call it even, then,” Stephen says. “All our lives and the theater saved, in exchange for a story,” Stephen laughs. “Even-Steven?”

Fraser nods. “That sounds like an appropriate exchange to me. Even-Stephen.”

Stephen smiles at that. “Good luck and Godspeed, Constable Fraser. I hope we meet again someday.” 

“As do I,” Fraser says, and touches the brim of his hat in parting. Stephen returns to his friends and Fraser watches him go, the words of the story echoing in his mind.


	11. ANTHEM

Three hours later, they’ve finished booking Ruth Janelle, bagged and tagged the evidence, filed reports and statements. 

Under threat of a health-department shut-down, theater bigwigs brought in a cleaning crew and an army of licensed exterminators. When they moved the infamous backstage couch, they found a dozen rat-traps underneath, some of them occupied, all baited with peanut butter. Janelle wasn’t just blackmailing the theater; she’d been trying to get it closed for health and safety violations. 

“That’s put me off pb&j for awhile,” Ray says, shaking his shoulders in disgust. “Funny thing is, if she’d stuck to the rat-plan and left off the blackmailing, it might’ve actually worked.”

Fraser nods. “I find that criminals, with a few rare and notable exceptions, are not, as one might say, the sharpest knives in the drawer.”

“You can say that again.”

“I find that criminals ….” 

“Not literally, Fraser.”

“Understood.”

###

By the time everything’s all said and done, it’s late and Ray’s feeling tired, grouchy, and needing food again, though definitely not peanut butter.

“Come with me,” he says to Fraser, guiding him by the shoulder towards the Goat. “Don’t argue.” 

Ray has things he needs to say to his partner in private, and not all of them are good.

They stop by the Jewish deli, grab a couple of pastrami sandwiches with a side of pickles and potato chips, and drive back to Ray’s place, eating as they go.

“Tonight was …” Ray takes one hand off the steering wheel and waves it in a vague gesture, “well, I don’t know what it was, exactly, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.” 

“Me neither.”

“I appreciate you saving my life and all .…”

“Forgive me for interrupting, but I didn’t save you. Mr. Nichols did.”

“A lucky accident. Give yourself some credit. You distracted her eventually.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray sees Fraser pull his earlobe and grimace. 

“... but still, I gotta ask,” Ray continues, “why’d you wait? Why didn’t you just sing right away?”

Fraser turns to look at Ray, then faces back towards the windshield, his gaze lowered in embarrassment.

“I apologize for my momentary lapse of judgment. I should not have hesitated, and I take full responsibility for any distress my incompetence may have caused you.” 

It sounds to Ray like a rehearsed apology. It’s the kind of thing he’d say when giving himself a formal reprimand. Such a Fraser thing to do: spit out a mouthful of big words that don’t mean squat.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Fraser looks down, like he’s trying to draw his head right into that high round collar. Like a turtle. 

“Do you know what the lyrics to that song mean, Ray?” 

Ray rolls his eyes. “I’m a cop, Fraser. Of course I do. I may not speak French but I do speak hooker.” 

He glances over at Fraser, who is fiddling with his hat on the dash and looking out the window.

“They’re just words, Fraser.”

“I wish I could agree with you, Ray.”

It’s as Ray thought — Fraser had been pushed up against his values. It hadn’t really registered until now how strong that moral code of right-speaking, right-thinking, right-acting was for the Mountie, down to the words he allowed himself to say. 

“All right,” Ray says. “I get it. It was hard for you — you sing great, but the lyrics, yeah. Saying those words cost you.” He reaches out to rub Fraser’s shoulder, trying to reassure him. “It’s OK.”

“You are correct, Ray, it was difficult for me, but that is no excuse. I should have acted more quickly.”

“You gave Patti LaBelle a run for her money,” Ray says, grinning at Fraser. “I like to hear you sing.” 

“Ah.” Fraser blushes. “Thank you.”

“And those moves? I didn’t know you had it in you. You’ve been holding out on me.” Ray turns his head and flashes a dirty smile. “Elvis The Pelvis got nothing on you.”

Fraser gives a little snort-laugh and does that thing where he cracks his jaw when he’s embarrassed. Ray grins even bigger. A blush, a laugh  _ and  _ a jaw crack. Well.

There’s a long pause before Fraser speaks again. He rubs a finger across his mouth, thinking.

“ Something strange occurred during my performance and it’s bothering me.”

“ Something stranger than everything that happened?”

“ Yes .”

“Are you OK?”

“ Physically, yes. Mentally, I’m uncertain. It’s almost as though something broke when I sang that song.”

“Are you tryna tell me you’re even more unhinged than usual?”

“I’m not sure what I’m saying, Ray. I am still trying to figure that out.”

“Oh, I get it. You mean — you were forced to make a fool of yourself for once and it didn’t kill you? Welcome to the human race.”

“The greatest lesson in life is to know that even fools are right sometimes.”

“Who said that? Aretha Franklin?”

“Churchill.”

“Oh, him — the homeless guy who hangs out on the corner of Fourth and Water Street. He gives me tips sometimes.”

“No, not the homeless man. Winston Churchill, former British Prime Minister.”

Ray glances over at Fraser. “So your massive ego got bashed around a little. Frankly that might do you some good.”

Fraser looks at Ray, chagrined. “I do not have a massive ego.”

“Fraser, your ego’s bigger than the lake they call Michigan.”

Fraser shakes his head. “Regardless. Something happened to it. To me.”

“Are you sure that’s a bad thing? Maybe it’s like the song says — the cracked part’s how the light gets in.”

“Your friend Stephen said something similar to me earlier. I suppose I shall have to ponder that.”

“You do that,” Ray says.  _ You go ahead and do that _ .

###

Half an hour later, Ray’s sprawled out on his couch, Fraser perched beside him, watching the Leafs grind the Stars into the ice on TV. 

Their jackets, weapons, and Fraser’s Stetson hang on hooks by the door, boots tucked below. Fraser has stripped down to his undershirt, suspenders, socks, and puffy pants, and Ray wonders if he has any clue what a turn-on that outfit is. Fraser always looks great in his red serge uniform, but this — the half-dressed-Mountie look — is downright hot. It’s even sexier when Fraser pushes his sleeves up to reveal his toned forearms, sort of like exposing a bit of ankle back in the olden days. Scandalous.

Fraser leans back on the sofa, sort-of relaxed but not completely. 

“Put your feet up, Frase. You’ve earned it.” 

Fraser shakes his head. He refuses to put his feet on the coffee table even though Ray has told him a hundred times it’s OK.

“My grandmother trained it out of me. She’d smack my toes with a library book if I ever put my feet on her table.”

“I’m not your grandma,” Ray says, gesturing down his body.

Fraser’s eyes follow the movement of Ray’s hands down and over him, and the intensity of that gaze sends heat all through Ray’s chest and straight down to his dick. 

The tip of Fraser’s tongue flicks to the corner of his mouth, where he bites it. 

“No, you most definitely aren’t,” he says, and the guy actually  _ smolders _ .

And God, that man can smolder. Jesus, Fraser, could you be any more obvious? 

“C’mon, live dangerously for once,” Ray teases him, smolders right back, “you know you want to.” 

Fraser blushes, crosses his legs at the ankles, and turns back to watch the game. Stubborn as hell, that one.

Every few minutes or so Fraser glances over at Ray, probably when he thinks Ray isn’t looking, and Ray can  _ feel _ it. It’s like the other night, pizza night, only there’s more of it, more of  _ him _ . Fraser seems to be taking up more room, filling the space with his energy even more than usual, waves of heat rolling off him, raising the temperature of the very air.

In the last week or so Fraser had definitely changed — there’d been those  _ looks _ over pizza, then the Closet of Almost-But-Not-Quite Sex, and now this … this … well, Ray didn’t know what to call it exactly, but it was so thick you could cut with a knife.

It was making it hard to concentrate on the game. Or anything else, for that matter.

Ten minutes later Ray gives up and goes to use the john. He splashes cold water on his face and that helps, a little.

When he comes back into the living room, he stops in his tracks. Fraser has his  _ feet _ on the coffee table. Damn. Maybe Fraser’s new cracks are letting something out, as much as they’re letting light in.

Ray doesn’t say a word about it for fear of breaking the spell. Instead he sits down right next to Fraser with his own feet propped on the table so that their legs are lined up side by side, from thigh to ankle. 

The touch of Ray’s leg makes Fraser go rigid from head to toe, and there’s a crackle of electricity in the air. Fraser is absolutely radiating need at him now, like one of those moon-tower spotlights they use on baseball fields at night. 

Ray is this-close to saying — or doing — something he can’t take back. He’s not sure whether that is the best or the worst thing ever because it’s probably both. Ray’s mind races thinking about all the ways Fraser might be feeling too inhibited to act, and what he might do about that, and ….

Fuck this. 

Ray takes a deep breath, clicks off the TV, tosses the remote onto the coffee table. The abrupt silence leaves his ears ringing, except for the sound of his own racing heartbeat.


	12. THE CARIBOU IN THE ROOM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NC-17

Fraser arches an eyebrow at him and asks, “Tired of the game?”

Ray drums his fingers on his thigh, thinking. His stomach hurts and his hands have gone to ice, but it’s time to shit or get off the pot, damn it. Past time.

“Yeah. No.” Ray shakes his head in a confusion of answers, but keeps talking before he loses his nerve. “I’m tired of  _ this _ .”

Fraser looks down and picks an invisible piece of lint off his pants. “Of what, exactly?”

“This,” Ray waves his hand, taking in the space. “The elephant in the room. Or in your case, the caribou. The thing we’re not talking about.”

Fraser angles his body towards Ray and studies his face. Ray can tell he’s feeling cornered, trying to decide whether to pretend he doesn’t understand, tell a story, or hide behind a wall of silence. 

Ray’s having none of it. He shifts sideways on the couch to face Fraser. 

“Don’t you dare try and weasel out of this.”

“Understood.”

“You. Me. Caribou.” Ray punctuates each word by pointing at Fraser, himself, and the air with his pinky and index fingers. 

Fraser pulls on his earlobe, ducks his head, and looks over at the blank television screen. 

“I’m sorry Ray. I’ve never been particularly good at expressing my feelings.”

“Gee, I never noticed.”

Fraser frowns at the sarcasm but doesn't argue. In fact, he doesn’t talk at all. Looks like it’s up to Ray to lead this dance. Damn you, Fraser. Ray takes a deep breath and goes for broke. 

“Ben ….” Fraser snaps his head around so fast Ray can hear it crack. Ray’s never really called him Ben, not like this, and if he didn’t have Fraser’s full attention before, he sure as hell has it now. “You want this, or not?”

Fraser raises his eyebrows and folds his arms across his chest. “That’s putting it bluntly.”

“I’m a blunt kinda guy.”

Fraser shakes his head. “What I want isn’t important, Ray.”

Not this again — not this … “Bullshit.”

Fraser looks offended. Offense intended, buddy.

“Well it’s not,” Fraser says, “if it puts others at risk.”

“You’re such a hippo ... that thing where you say one thing and do another.” Ray’s getting exasperated. Why did words always seem to fail him when he needed them most? 

“Hypocrite?”

“That. You put others at risk all the time with your superhero act. Every time I’m with you I’m afraid I’m going to die. But when it comes to what you want — not to mention what  _ I _ want — you’re a coward. There’s more to life than dying, Fraser. It’s time you figured that out.”

Fraser’s head jerks like Ray socked him on the jaw, and his cheeks flush red.

“Yeah, I said it,” Ray folds his arms and lowers his chin, daring him to fight back. At least fighting would be better than this constant dodging and running from actually having to feel things.

Fraser looks like he’s about to go all frozen-north-Mountie, maybe even get up and leave, but he doesn’t. His shoulders slump, his head drops, and he kind of folds in on himself like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. 

“You are correct, Ray.” Fraser says, running a hand through his hair, mussing it, not looking up. “I am a coward when it comes to relationships. It’s not your fault. I’ve been burned before.”

Fraser looks so sad that Ray’s heart melts. He hadn’t meant to hurt Fraser or dredge up the past — he’d just wanted him to lighten up a little. It’s obvious they both want to cross this line, and it’s driving Ray crazy that neither one of them seems to be able to do that. 

“That was then. This is now.”

“I am aware of that.” Fraser picks at his neatly-trimmed fingernails. “But we have a good partnership. Your friendship means more to me than you could possibly imagine.” 

Ray can imagine it, actually. Stella had left a hole in his heart so big he thought it might never fully heal — until Fraser dropped into his life and set the whole damn thing on fire.

“I don’t want to jeopardize any of that by introducing … complications,” Fraser says, touching the tip of his tongue to his teeth.

“Yeah. I get that. But, Ben … those complications? They already happened.”

Fraser looks up, surprised. “When?”

“I don’t know. First time I laid eyes on you, I guess.” Ray looks down, sheepish.

“I see.”

Ray shifts nervously on the couch.

“I have always found you attractive, Ray.”

And there it is. It’s all on the table. The caribou’s been gutted, skinned and dried into a year’s supply of jerky. Ray can’t help it — he grins shyly and fiddles with the silver beads on his bracelet.

“It nearly didn’t work out, once,” Fraser reminds him.

He didn’t need reminding. “We’re still partners.”

“Yes, I suppose we are.” Fraser interlaces his fingers on his lap.

“Yeah.” Ray nods. “And …?” 

He lifts his palm to rest on Fraser’s cheek. He can feel the faint scratch of Fraser’s stubble, rough and tingly on his skin. It’s only then that he notices his hand is trembling. He’s trying to be cool but failing miserably.

Fraser’s eyes are riveted on Ray’s now, two thin slate-blue rings around wells of black. It sounds to Ray like Fraser might have stopped breathing. Good. Because nobody’s breathing right now, so that’s only fair.

Ray closes the distance between them, feels Fraser’s warm lips ghosting on his own. He lingers in the kiss for a second, and  _ oh God  _ his mouth is finally, finally, on Fraser’s and his heart is in his throat. He ends the kiss, intending to pull back to gauge Fraser’s reaction to all this Yes-Anding, half expecting to find him in a state of shock. 

But before Ray can break contact, Fraser’s hands are around the back of his neck, fingertips pushing up into his hair, and Fraser is kissing him back, pulling him in, swiping his hot, sweet, tongue over and between Ray’s lips and he’s so needy, so hungry, and  _ God _ , it’s so, so good. A rush of heat pools between his legs and it’s a good thing he’s already sitting down because otherwise his knees would be buckling under him.

Uninhibited Fraser is, Ray decides, the best thing ever.

Fraser breaks the kiss, and grins big enough to show that adorable crooked tooth of his. Ray smiles so hard it nearly breaks his face. His heart is beating fast now, and he feels like it might burst out of his chest with happiness. He raises his eyebrows. 

“And?”

“And …” Fraser leans backwards, pulling Ray on top of him until they’re stretched out on the couch. A thigh slides between Ray’s legs and presses there, hard. Ray’s cock jumps and he grinds his hips down with a soft groan.

Fraser snakes a hand around Ray’s waist, holding him tight, and cups the back of his head with his other hand, pulling him in for another kiss. Fraser kisses him deeply, softly. His tongue — that amazing tongue that’s been everywhere except where Ray wanted it — explores Ray’s mouth like he’s memorizing a new landscape. 

Then his hands are moving, raking through Ray’s hair and down his back, groping his ass, touching everywhere he can reach. Nearly two years they’ve waited for this, held back, but not anymore. 

They go at it, making out for five minutes, ten, who knows —  Ray can’t tell because he’s lost track of time, drowning in a sea of hair and hands and tongues and heat and disbelief. He still can’t quite convince himself that he’s not dreaming. He pauses to catch his breath, closes his eyes, touches his forehead to Fraser’s before tenderly kissing it.

Fraser smiles up at him, his lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking happier than Ray’s ever seen him. Middle gear. Nice.

And yeah, this  _ is _ real nice, but Ray wants more, has always wanted more — as much as Fraser will give him. Time to find out how much that is.

He grazes his lips over Fraser’s cheek, jaw, and ear, working his way down. He slides his tongue along the taut tendon in Fraser’s neck, until he lands on the pulse point. Ray sucks on the spot, hard, and Fraser shivers.  _ Like that do you _ ? Ray does it again and Fraser moans. Oh, yeah, he likes.

He slips his hands under Fraser’s suspenders and tugs them off his shoulders, untucks the shirt and slides a hand up underneath. His skin is hot to the touch. Ray moves his palm over the smooth, nearly hairless chest, feeling the muscles rippling underneath his fingers, until he reaches one hard, tight nipple. Ray grazes his fingernails over and around it, and Fraser hisses and bucks, arching up into Ray’s hand.

And suddenly there is way too fucking much fabric between them. Ray needs to feel skin on skin, all of it. He almost rips Fraser’s shirt off, pulls it over his head and throws it to the floor, followed by his own t-shirt. Fraser smooths his burning hot hands over Ray’s back, clutching and grabbing at him, turning his skin to ash. He bends up to lick and suck at Ray’s chest, sliding his tongue over each nipple in turn, sending waves of electricity and heat shooting down Ray’s spine straight to his dick.

Ray slides a hand down between them, grips Fraser’s rock-hard erection through the cloth of his pants and  _ bam _ , something snaps. 

Fraser groans and pulls Ray’s head down for a kiss so hard it nearly hurts. He plunges his tongue into Ray’s mouth, over and over, like he’s fucking him with it. Ray feels Fraser’s dick grinding against his hand through his clothes, moving in time with his tongue, and he nearly goes out of his mind. 

God  _ yes _ . Yes,  _ and .… _ Ray undoes Fraser’s fly, reaches his hand inside the waistband of his starched boxers and grabs the tip of Fraser’s bare, uncut length, which is hot and leaking under his touch. Fraser does that wolflike  _ growl _ and it shoots fire all through him, the sound of it. It’s only the second time Ray’s ever heard it but he plans to make Fraser do it again and again and again.

“Want you,” Ray says into Fraser’s mouth.

Fraser lets out a muffled groan but his erection leaps under Ray’s hand, speaking its own unmistakable language. 

“Ray ....”

Ray kisses him.

“Ray —”

Ray kisses him again, harder this time, his hand gripping tighter and sliding down, and Fraser moans.

“Ray.  _ Ray.” _ Insistent.

“What.” 

“We need to stop.”

Ray freezes and pulls his hand back, breathing hard.  _ Shit.  _ Things are finally going hot and heavy and he wants to  _ stop _ ? _ Shit shit shit _ . Maybe he’d pushed things too fast. Got too desperate. Shit.

“ …? ” 

Ray searches Fraser’s face. As much as he wants this, and  _ dear God _ does he want this, he’s not going to push no matter how hard his dick is aching for it, no matter how long he’s waited for it. No way. It’s the one line Ray will not cross: it’s full, enthusiastic consent or nothing.

“Before we proceed any further I feel it is my duty to inform you that I have been tested and shown to be free of any communicable diseases. I also feel it is only responsible to ask whether you are in the same condition or whether we should take precautions.”

Ray stares at him, then laughs out loud with relief. He can’t believe the guy is able to think straight let alone construct complete sentences. Gotta admire him. Proper preparation and all that. 

“I’m fine,” Ray says, smiling. “More than fine.”

The whole time he’d been married he never cheated, not once. Before and after that he’d been careful. Plus, he had a physical every year with all the tests, for the job. 

But — Ray can’t help but wonder — maybe this is Fraser’s polite way of saying he’s not down for this. Ray gives him an out. Full consent or nothing.

“If you just want to make out or whatever, that’s cool ….” 

Ray is half worried that the whole night’s about to go kaboom, and half expecting a long string of questions and a lecture, but instead of answering with words, Fraser answers with action. He undoes Ray’s fly with frightening speed, grabs his cock, and squeezes.

Garbled noises come from Ray’s throat and the part of his brain that makes sentences nearly shuts down completely. He does manage to breathe out one word:

“Bed.”

He drops his feet to the floor and pushes himself backwards. Fraser grumbles and tries to pull him back down but Ray shuts him up with another kiss and hauls him to his feet. They stumble towards the bedroom, leaving the rest of their clothes scattered behind them on the floor.

And all the while Fraser’s  _ talking _ . Between kisses and nips and licks and caresses and tracing Ray’s tattoo with his fingers and tongue, he keeps whispering under his breath.  

 

“... yes and his heart was going like mad 

and yes I said 

yes I will Yes.” 

 

Over and over he says it, like it’s a prayer or a poem or madness, but it’s the kind of madness Ray can get behind _. _ If the guy needs to talk during sex, if,  _ dear lord _ he needs to give  _ consent _ over and over, he’s not gonna stop him. There is nothing hotter than Fraser wanting it. Begging for it. Nothing.

Ray’s next tattoo is gonna be those words, right over his heart.

When they reach the bedroom, Ray pushes Fraser backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, knocking his legs out from under him _.  _ They tumble onto the bed, and Ray laughs as he lands on top of Fraser with an  _ oof _ .

Ray’s about to ask one last time if this is OK, if everything’s still good — but the question turns to smoke when he feels his bare cock slide against Fraser’s length, smooth and hot and slick. They both let out a moan of shock and pleasure at the contact.  _ Christ _ , yeah, it’s all good, it’s fucking amazing. 

He’s so ready to take control of this, ready to give Fraser exactly what he’s asking for, but Fraser has other ideas. In one swift move he levers himself up and flips Ray over onto his back, takes both of Ray’s wrists in one hand and presses them onto the mattress over Ray’s head, pinning him down with all that strength and extra weight, with a look in his eye that says he’s going to eat him alive. Ray can feel the metal beads of his bracelet pressing into the skin of his wrist under Fraser’s grip.

And damn, if that isn’t the most Fraser move ever. Lull you into thinking he’s all submissive then crush you under his bootheel. If Fraser was reluctant before, there’s not a trace of it now. He’s gone all in, and once he’s done that you might as well give up, because he never will. 

Ray briefly considers fighting him on principle, but only for an instant, because before that thought can finish forming in his head, Fraser straddles him, rolls his hips, roughly tongues Ray’s ear, and the only thing that comes out Ray’s mouth is a groan.  _ Sign of affection, my ass _ — definitely a prelude to lunch.

Fraser nuzzles the spot behind his ear and starts kissing his way down Ray’s neck. Ray moans and tilts his head, baring his throat.  _ Fine. Have it your way — this time.  _ Fraser nips at Ray’s Adam’s apple and Ray mutters another incoherent sound. Fraser moves down again, bites the spot where his collarbone joins his neck and Ray lets out a little yelp of pleasure-pain. That’s gonna leave a mark, damn him. Fraser soothes the spot with the broad flat of his tongue, which sends another jolt down Ray’s legs, all the way to his toes.

Fraser pushes Ray’s legs apart with his knees and settles his hips down between Ray’s thighs. Then he’s on Ray’s mouth again, sucking his bottom lip, his hot tongue sliding in, kissing him deep and hard, and OK, this is good, Fraser being all alpha and,  _ fuck _ , he’s grinding and pumping, now, faster and faster. Sweat beads and slicks the skin where their bodies rub together and Ray’s mind is turning to static.

Fraser arches his back and thrusts against Ray a few more times before he lets go of Ray’s wrists and reaches around to grab one of Ray’s ass cheeks with one hand, digging his fingers in and holding tight. And now Fraser’s body’s sliding south and there’s no doubt in Ray’s mind where he’s headed — Ray’s the main course on the menu, special of the day. And down and down he goes, wet mouth and burning hands and there it is, that tongue, doing that thing, and  _ holy fuck _ he really will put his mouth anywhere, and then Fraser’s swallowing him and it’s hot and wet and  _ God _ and words are not possible anymore.

Fraser lets out a moan of pleasure, like having Ray’s dick in his mouth is the only thing he’s ever wanted, and Ray can feel the vibrations shoot straight down his cock. It’s all he can do not to buck. Ray grabs Fraser’s hair to steady himself. He looks down, sees those lips locked around his shaft, head bobbing up and down, his dick going in and out of Fraser’s mouth, and the sight of it nearly melts his brain. He closes his eyes because he doesn’t want it to end, not yet, not yet. 

The next thing Ray feels is a hot hand cupping his balls, sliding behind them and  _ Whoa _ . He lets out a startled noise and his eyes fly open.

Fraser pulls his mouth off and the cold air hits hard, sending a shiver through him. 

“Trust me?” Fraser strokes and presses Ray’s tight hole lightly with one wet finger, studies Ray’s face, asking permission. 

_ Jesus _ . And there’s that word again:  _ trust _ . 

Ray knows about the finger in the butt thing of course, but Stella had always been squeamish about it, so it’s not something he has a lot of experience with letting someone else do to him. He never thought for one second he’d be getting kinky with a Mountie, let alone Fraser, of all people. But, hey, he’ll try anything, and they’re all about the Yes, And-ing tonight, so Ray gurgles out a half-choked “Yeah. Ok. Wait a sec.”

Ray fumbles his hand towards the nightstand, jerks the drawer open and rummages around until he finds the tube of slick. Fraser takes it from him, warms some up in his hand, presses against Ray’s hole and, very gently and slowly, slides a finger in up to the first knuckle. Ray lets out a noise he didn’t know he was capable of. 

“Shh. Try to relax.” 

Ray does as he’s told and the finger slides deeper. It burns a little and is weird but it’s not all bad so he does his damndest to relax. Ben gives him a few seconds to adjust, then slides deeper still. Ray’s about to call it quits when he hits a spot that  _ Holy Mother of God  _ nearly makes Ray go blind. His whole body shakes and he lets out a whimper.

Which must be some kind of signal because Ben’s mouth is back on him, sucking Ray’s cock and the other hand is rubbing that spot with his finger and Ray’s lost in sensation, mind turned to jello. It’s too much and not enough and _oh_ _fuck, God, don’t stop don’t stop ..._. Heat curls in his gut, spreads out, rising to a hot white point. 

Fraser pulls his mouth off again and starts pumping, fast with a little squeeze of the crown at the end of each stroke, exactly the way he likes it, and how could he possibly know that and — 

“ _ Christ _ , I’m ... I’m gonna ….”

“Yes. Come for me,” Fraser demands, his voice like brass knuckles wrapped in velvet, the words sending a shockwave through Ray’s body. “I want you to ...” he breathes.

_ Jesus fucking fuck _ ! And Ray’s gone. “Oh  _ God _ ,” he rasps. His whole body tenses, light explodes behind his eyelids and he lets out a hoarse cry, shuddering as he pulses over their stomachs in hot waves. 

“Ray. Ray. My Ray,” Fraser whispers, his voice broken and aching with love, piercing Ray’s heart. Fraser lets go, pulls the finger out of him, kisses his cheeks, his lips, strokes his hair, caresses his arms, loving him through it, holding him close.

Ray shakes for a minute, breathing hard, the aftershocks ripping through him, until his heart calms and the tremors stop coursing through his body.

There aren’t enough swear words in the English language for what he’s feeling right now, not enough words, period. Where in the fucking hell holy church of kamasutra did he learn to do that? Ray always knew the man had uncharted depths and superhero powers, but, jeez.

Ray’s feeling groggy and sleepy and thoroughly fucked out, but Fraser’s rock hard dick is still at full mast. Christ, that man has self-control. Ray wonders what it will take to make him lose it completely. He has no idea, since exploring this side of his partner is all new to him, but it’s going to be fun finding out. 

Ray pushes Fraser off him, rolls them so they are lying on their sides. He grabs the hair on the back of Fraser’s head, tugs at it and kisses him deep and sweet and slow. Fraser groans and tries to push back but Ray shoves his shoulders down onto the bed so he’s lying on his back, spread out like an all-you-can eat sex buffet. 

This time Fraser doesn’t resist. Instead he watches Ray, a smug expression on his face. He looks like he’s about to say something smartass, but before he can open his mouth Ray leans forwards and wraps a hand around the base of his dick, which is hot and red and throbbing, slick and wet and covered with Ray’s shot. He pumps a couple of times and Fraser gasps, closes his eyes, and shuts up real quick. Ray’s going to remember this the next time he needs Fraser to be quiet. He still hasn’t forgotten the cauliflower incident. 

Ray strokes his thumb up the underside of the shaft, and Fraser hisses. He traces around the head, over the tip, sliding his thumb gently up and down again, making animal-like moans come from Fraser’s mouth. Fraser tilts his head back and rocks his hips into Ray’s grip, a guttural sound escaping his lips with each thrust. 

And damn, if that isn’t the sexiest thing ever, hearing those noises and knowing that he’s the reason for it. Ray wonders what other sounds he can get out of Fraser, and goes for it. But the instant his tongue swipes the tip of that hot wet cock …. 

“ _ Fuuuuh _ ,” Fraser says under his breath.

Ray stops, stunned. Did he — did he almost swear?

“Ray. You don’t …” he gasps, “... don’t have to do that.” He reaches for Ray’s shoulders to pull him up but Ray pushes his hands away.

“Want to,” Ray says, stroking him a few times, “OK?”

In a strained voice that’s so quiet Ray can barely hear it, “Yes. _God_ _yes_.”

Ray flashes a wicked smile before ducking his head again to lick a stripe down and around the shaft then back up again. Fraser almost-swears for the second time that night, and right then and there Ray decides he’s going to do whatever it takes to get him to curse a blue streak. Ray takes him into his mouth, one hand wrapped around the base. Fraser lets out a long, slow moan and tangles his fingers in Ray’s hair.

Fraser makes another sound, this time a whimper of frustration, “ _ Please _ .”

Ray begins sucking cock in earnest, giving it his best, trying to remember what he likes and doing that. It doesn’t take long before Fraser is panting, straining, letting out a string of meaningless sounds. 

Ray reaches down to cup his balls, squeezing them gently, and feels them tightening, tensing. He decides to return that other favor and lubes a finger. He slides it in, real slow, watching for a sign of  _ no _ but there isn’t any. 

Inside it’s hot. Snug. Slick with lube but with tight ridges of muscle twitching around his hand.  _ Jesus _ . He can’t believe Fraser’s letting him do this, never in a million years.

Fraser surprises him by shoving himself down hard onto Ray’s hand, then thrusting up into Ray’s mouth and,  _ God _ , if that isn’t enough to get his own half-soft dick interested again. Ben’s gasping and moaning, fucking his mouth and grinding down on his finger. He’s close now, so close. Ray gives his hand a little push, a quick twist, that’s it, that’s all she wrote. 

At the last second Fraser tries to pull Ray off but Ray won’t let him. His whole body jerks and shakes as he comes, a haunting, feral sound ripped from his throat. Ray takes everything he gives him, swallows it all down, salty and hot and gushing, every drop, milking him until he’s spent.

When Ray finally pulls off and looks up it’s a terrifying sight, seeing Ben completely shattered like this. His hair is a dense, tangled thicket of damp curls, his skin pink and glistening with sweat, his breath coming in short gasps, his expression open and vulnerable. He’s beautiful — there’s no other word for it. So beautiful that looking at him causes Ray physical pain.

Ray slips his hands free and lies down on top of him, gently kissing his bruised and swollen lips. Fraser darts his tongue into Ray’s mouth, tasting himself there, and sighs with satisfaction.  _ God _ that’s freaky but it’s fucking hot too. The sheer eroticism of the gesture sends a shiver through Ray’s body. 

He rests his head on Fraser’s sweaty chest and listens as his heartbeat and breathing slow to normal, fixing those fleeting, fragile sounds in his mind. Ray feels the smooth skin, the taut muscles still rippling underneath, radiating heat. He hears Ben’s heartbeat, slow and steady, the warm pulse of life flowing through him, the rush and ebb of breath rising and falling under his cheek. 

Between the beats, between the breaths, silence.  
  


###

Ben inhales deeply, taking in the scents of sweat, sex, hair gel and shaving soap on Ray’s skin. The mingled tastes of saliva and semen, metallic and salty and sweet, linger on his tongue as the last of the post-orgasm shockwaves ripple through him.

He holds Ray close for several minutes, intertwined with him as hand to glove. He breathes quietly, drifting in the warm afterglow, stunned into silence and overwhelmed by what they’ve done. He feels dazed, cracked wide open, splintered into a thousand glittering shards.

Ben is even more shocked by how at peace he feels, how  _ right _ it all seems. Broken, but right. It gives a new layer of meaning to  _ maintiens le droit _ . 

But he knows he doesn’t deserve this, any of it. He is unworthy of Ray, this fiery, trusting soul who has given him his heart, his body, his everything, and yet here they are, friends and partners  _ and  _ …. 

They’re an  _ And _ , now. Ben and Ray, Ray and Ben. A duet — as Ray had always known they were but Ben had been too blind to see. He had been too closed off from this gift of grace, this gift of love, to accept it, until now. 

A wave of warmth springs up inside Ben’s chest and radiates out to all parts of his being. When the warmth hits his throat it gets caught there, and his eyes sting a little. Sweat. Must be sweat. He reaches up to rub his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath.

“You OK?” Ray asks sleepily, tucking his head into the hollow of Ben’s shoulder like it has always belonged there.

“Mmhm,” is all he can say. For once, Ben is at a loss for words. He holds Ray tightly, hoping the strength of his embrace says all that his voice cannot.

After awhile Ray kisses Ben, his lips warm and soft. He clambers off the bed and pads to the shower. Five minutes later he emerges wearing nothing at all, unashamed, his hair sticking up in all directions. He is incandescent. So beautiful it makes Ben’s heart ache just to look at him.

Ben smiles at Ray, reluctant to take his eyes off him, but nevertheless does so, and goes to clean up. He exits the washroom a few minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist. Ray is curled up under the blanket, softly singing the chorus of  _ Lady Marmalade _ to himself.

“Come to bed with me.” Ray pats the pillow next to him.

“Again? So soon?” Ben smiles at him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes. Well, no. Yes later. Sleep now.” He reaches out his hand, and Fraser takes it.

“As you wish,” Ben says, gazing fondly at his lover’s face. His lover. His heart thrills to the sound that word makes in his mind, and his eyes sting again.

Then, in a supreme act of bravery, he carefully hangs the towel on the hook by the washroom door, exposing himself to Ray’s appreciative gaze. Naked, he climbs in under the covers, wraps himself around Ray, drapes an arm around his chest, and sighs with contentment. They lace their fingers together, holding on to each other and to this moment.

“Ray,” he says quietly.

“Hmm,” Ray answers, half asleep.

He kisses the fuzzy blond back of his head. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah, you do.” He laughs, a gentle rumble. Ben can feel it in his own chest through Ray’s back. Exquisite. “I kinda think we deserve each other.”

“Perhaps.”

“You should be uninhibited more often,” Ray says, his voice groggy.

“Definitely. I should. Yes. And … you ….”

“Hmmm?” Ray says, sleep overtaking him.

“You’re perfect the way you are.”


	13. GREASED LIGHTNING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NC-17

Ray’s dreaming. He dreams of snow, and of a snug, warm cabin, high in the mountains, surrounded by pine trees dusted with white. Best part is, in his dream he’s being sucked off by a Mountie.

He moans softly in his sleep and accidentally wakes himself up. Ray’s mind drifts towards consciousness, chasing the dream, trying to get it back.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles. The sounds of early morning traffic buzz in his ears. A garbage truck rumbles by, rattles the windows.

He yawns, breathes in deep. The musky smell of sweat and sex fills his nostrils. It’s soaked into the sheets, the pillow, even the air. Gonna have to do laundry soon.

The entire back side of his body is toasty from shoulders to calves, like he’s snuggled up to a space heater. He vaguely remembers that Stella was never that warm. His thoughts are foggy and he can’t quite figure out what’s making him feel like a fresh-baked cinnamon roll, hot from the oven, or why he’s so happy.

A heavy arm wraps around his bare hips, and a firm callused hand idly strokes his … _whoa_.

Memories of last night flood back to him in a rush of heat and _oh_ _God_. His eyes fly open and a blush flares across his cheeks. Had he really done ... _that_? With _Fraser_. _Oh god oh god oh god_ ….  Ray’s body goes rigid and his heart starts pounding. If he’s still dreaming, he sure as hell doesn’t want to wake up because waking up means it’s all over, and he’s maybe made the biggest mistake of his life and — .

“Good morning, Ray.” Fraser’s voice. Soft, with a hint of a smile in it.

Morning. If you could call it that — it’s still mostly dark out. Yeah. OK. Not dreaming then. But the huge mistake part? Not so sure.

“Um. You OK, Frase?” Terrified of the answer.

He feels the tip of Fraser’s nose nuzzling up under his ear, breath tickling the back of his neck.

Fraser hums. “Transcendent.”

That’s good, right? It sounds good.

“And you Ray?”

“Greatness,” he says, feeling stupid, his voice raspy. “Are we … we still good?”

In answer Fraser nips at his neck and a hand squeezes Ray’s cock, slides up and down a little over the tip. Ray gasps. _Jesus_. Um, yeah. That’s good. We’re good.

Ray can feel Fraser’s dick poking against his ass, sliding between his butt cheeks, and he nearly chokes. He lets out a muffled moan as he squirms backwards, pressing against it.

“Want you,” Fraser says, low and breathy in Ray’s ear. Fraser rocks his hips forward and electricity shoots through Ray’s body. It’s too much.

He rolls over onto his side, facing Fraser, bends his elbow and props his head on his hand. He decides to size up the situation and have a good, long look while he’s at it.

What he sees in the grey, pre-dawn light is stunning. Rumpled, but stunning. Stubbled jaw, scruffy. Hair a mess of dark waves. Blue eyes shining, crinkled by faint laugh lines at the edges. A broad chest, the pale and glowing skin stretched over well-defined muscles. He’s mostly smooth, except for a dark trail of hair that starts at his belly button and ends in a mass of black curls punctuated by an impressive hard-on.

Fraser follows Ray’s gaze as it rakes over him. He licks his lips, cocks an eyebrow, and smiles. Ray’s mouth goes dry.

“Dragon breath,” Ray croaks, overcome by a sudden wave of self-consciousness. He probably looks like shit. Never was much of a morning person. He has a nearly inescapable urge to brush his teeth and grab a shave. When he tries to pull away, Fraser drags him back.

“I don’t care.”  

To prove his point, Fraser cradles the back of Ray’s neck with one hand and traces Ray’s lips with his tongue before slipping it inside his mouth. Ray opens to him, shy, but soon yields to that heavy, slick wetness. Ben’s rough stubble catches on Ray’s own. It prickles and scrapes across his skin, makes little scratching sounds as their lips move together. He’s never felt anything like that before. Cool.  

After what seems like a (warm, wet, blissed-out) eternity, Fraser breaks the kiss.

“Ray ….”

“Mmmfff?” Ray mumbles around a mouthful of Fraser’s whiskered jaw, which he’s currently exploring with his tongue.

“I want....” He rolls onto his back, pulling Ray on top of him. Fraser bends his knees, grabs Ray’s cock, pushes it against his hole and grinds his hips upwards. “You.”

 _Christ._ Ray freezes. He straightens his arms and lifts his head to get a better view of Fraser’s face.

“Jesus. You sure?” his voice is a strangled whisper.

“Please,” Fraser shifts under Ray and spreads his thighs wider, throwing any last shred of doubt out the window.

Oh Jesus. Ray’s not sure he can do this. He’s only ever done it like this once before, back in college, drunk as a skunk, and it wasn’t good. Neither of them knew what they were doing, it hurt, and the whole experience basically sucked (and not in a good way). He’d tried to erase the bad taste of it from his memory. If they’re going to do this, he wants it to be good or not at all.

“I don’t … I’m kinda new at this.”

“I trust you. With my life.” He cups Ray’s face with a hand, strokes his cheek, gazes into his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

 _It’s all about trusting each other_. He nods. Yeah. Yes. He does. Completely.

“How do you ….” _Christ_. He can’t believe he’s asking Fraser how he wants to take it up the ass.  Hell, he still can’t believe Fraser’s asking him to, either. Maybe he just needs to stop thinking. “You want to turn over or …?”

Fraser shakes his head no. “I want to see your face when you come.”

 _Jesus fucking hell._ Ray suddenly feels lightheaded, like he might pass out. Breathe. Remember to breathe. It’ll be OK. You got this.

Fraser lifts his hips and tucks a pillow under his lower back, making it easier for Ray to reach him. With trembling hands Ray kneels between Fraser’s legs, reaches for the tube of slick, greases up three fingers. This much he remembers. Fraser grabs Ray’s wrist, the one with the bracelet, pulls his hand down, slowly pushes one of Ray’s fingers inside. Ben moves, showing him what to do, opening himself up, stretching himself, first with one finger, then two. _God_. He’s never again going to look at that bracelet without picturing his fingers _there_.

Ray swallows. “More?”

Fraser nods. When the third finger slides in, Fraser closes his eyes tight and clutches at the sheets, tossing his head back. He lets Ray work him until he’s breathing hard, mumbling incoherently, bucking, gasping. It’s incredible to watch, seeing him helpless and under Ray’s power that way, his body thrashing with every move of Ray’s hand.

“ _Now_. _Please_.”

Now. Oh God.

Fraser tries to grab Ray’s cock but Ray pushes his hand away, slicks himself up instead. He gets himself lined up, presses the tip against Fraser’s entrance. Meets his eyes. Hesitates. _Dear_ _God_ they’re really doing this.

Seeing the uncertainty on Ray’s face, Fraser grabs Ray’s cock with one hand and pulls him down with a hiss.

“Oh _God_ , Ben .…”

Their bodies shake as Ray pushes in, slowly stretching and claiming an inch at a time. And Fraser opens for him, gives him everything, moaning and begging until Ray’s tight as he can go, balls deep, and there’s nothing left to offer.

And _oh God, yeah, fuck yeah_ , Ray realizes that he needs this too, needs it like air. He pulls out an inch, pushes back in, rocks his hips, groans with pleasure.

“Harder,” Fraser demands, his voice gruff, and Ray feels like he’s been set on fire. He shoves into Fraser’s body again, a little harder this time, and he moans.

“More.”

 _Demanding little fucker, aren’t you_. But again Ray obeys. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts in to the hilt, sighing, losing himself in touch and movement.

The tight heat of Fraser’s ass, the feel of his muscles clenching and rippling around him, Fraser’s rock-hard dick, red and swollen, pressed between them and rubbing against his stomach — all of it, every sensation and sight and smell — is driving Ray insane.

But it’s not enough. He wants to be closer, needs to be closer, needs to climb under Fraser’s skin, drive deep into his body. He wants to cut loose, but he won’t do anything to hurt Fraser, so he holds back, goes slow.

Apparently it’s not enough for Fraser either, because in the next moment he says, his voice husky and dark, “You won’t hurt me, Ray.”

It’s like he read his mind.

“Tell me what you want. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“I want …” Fraser takes a deep breath and digs his fingers into Ray’s hips, “I want you to _fuck_ me. Fuck me like you _mean_ it.”

The shock of _those_ words coming from _that_ mouth breaks the last shred of Ray’s self-control.

Ray grabs Fraser by the hair and slams into him with a savage jerk of his hips. Fraser squeezes his eyes shut and groans. _Yes_. Ray does it again and Fraser lets out a breathy, animal sound from deep in his chest as he shoves himself hard onto Ray’s cock. _Oh_ _God, yes._

Ray answers back with another rough thrust and a growl of his own. And still he wants more. So fucking much more.

He lunges forward, claims Fraser’s mouth in a brutal kiss, tastes blood. He feels like an unleashed wild dog, prey locked in its fangs, snarling and starving and desperate. Fraser yelp-growls, and Ray stops, startled by his own actions. _Shit_.

He scans Fraser’s face, afraid he’s gone too far, but finds only heat, pupils blown wide and glassy with lust. If anything, the rough treatment has only fueled the fire. There’s a dangerous expression there, too — a challenge that says: don’t you _dare_ stop now.

Ray picks up the gauntlet. He licks the bloody spot on Fraser’s lip, soothes it with his tongue, saying sorry without words. In return, Fraser jerks forward, grabs Ray’s bottom lip in his teeth, and with a sharp nip, bites him back.

 _Ow_ that hurt. So that’s how you want to play, is it? Like it rough do you, Mountie? He can do that. Shake, good guy, shake.

Ray rakes his fingers down Fraser’s sides and drives into him again, and again, and _yes, fuck yes that’s good, so good,_ setting up a rhythm, rolling hard into that tight, sweet ass, nearly lifting him off the mattress with each thrust.

Fraser digs his heels into Ray’s thighs, clutches tight to Ray’s back and mutters under his breath _._ Ray plunges into him, slamming against his hole and twisting upwards _._ _Take it, take it_ , and Fraser takes it all, meeting him thrust for thrust, guttural sounds coming from his throat.

Ray snaps his hips, riding him hard, ramming in and sliding out, slick and hot and sweaty. And he loves this, loves the way Fraser writhes under him, grunting and mumbling in broken tones. The tip of Fraser’s dick, foreskin pulled back and leaking, presses against Ray’s sweat-slicked stomach, and with every push Ray can feel it throbbing against his skin, aching for release. And he loves that too, being the Kryptonite to Fraser’s Superman.

Ray’s thighs and ass and arms ache, muscles clenched and burning, and he’s still not deep enough inside. He needs to be _in_ there, _in_ , _in_ , _in_ , lost in that ass, lost in Fraser’s body, swallowed up and drowned by his very soul, so that he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

Desperate to have it all, feel it all, claim every atom for his own, Ray grips Fraser’s knees, pushing them into his chest. He pounds into him, _and_ _yes_ _I said yes I will Yes,_ driving faster and faster, fucking him deep, fucking him hard, fucking and fucking and fucking and fucking.

“ _God_ , Ray, I need … I can’t … I’m .… ”

Fraser throws his head back again, grabs his own cock and starts pumping fast, making helpless moaning noises. Then Fraser’s shooting off and Ray can _feel_ it from inside as he climaxes, the muscles jerking and contracting around him. And _holy fuck_ , _ungh, oh_ **_God_** , Ray loses his rhythm and he’s shaking, shuddering, coming hard, spilling inside Fraser’s body in hot, fierce pulses, calling out while his mind explodes in a blinding flash of light.

Ray shakes uncontrollably, wracked with tremors, breath coming in short gasps. And then _for fucks sake_ he’s actually _crying_ , a choked sob escaping his lips before he can stop it. _What the fuck._ Sweat mixes with the tears streaming down his cheeks and he buries his face in Fraser’s heaving chest to hide his embarrassment.

“Shhh,” Fraser says, stroking Rays hair, holding him close. “Shhh. Ray.”

Ray takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself but he’s weak and trembling all over, goosebumps prickling his skin. He carefully pulls out of Fraser’s body and shivers, suddenly feeling cold, wet, sticky, completely spent, and utterly exhausted.

“I never …” he begins, but Fraser shushes him again, caresses his back, kisses his hair, soothing him.

Fraser reaches for the blanket and drapes it over the both of them, wrapping them in warmth. It seems like a little thing, the way he pulls the blanket around them, but it isn’t little at all.

A sudden wave of emotion crashes over and through Ray, nearly drowning him. He’s overwhelmed, in awe not just from the mind-blowing sex, but of this living, breathing, beautiful man wrapped in his arms, the one who cares enough to make sure he’s warm, too.

Tears sting the corners of his eyes again as a burst of heat scorches through his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut tight to keep from falling apart completely. Ray hasn’t felt this way in years, so many years. It’s been so long that he’s nearly forgotten what it feels like to need another person this much, to trust, to surrender so completely — to love so much it burns.

They hold each other, the silence broken only by the sound of their breathing and the soft rush of cars on the street outside. They drift, lost in each other’s arms. Lost, but found, too.

After a few minutes, Fraser eases himself out from under Ray and leans down to kiss the corners of his eyes, tasting the salt there. He goes to the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth. He gently wipes the dried tears from Ray’s cheeks, then cleans them both up, tosses the cloth into the hamper, and slides back under the covers.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Fraser says, resting his head on Ray’s shoulder.

 _Fuck_. That this was all a mistake? He’s secretly married? That … that he’s leaving and this was his way of saying goodbye …?

“What.”

“I love you.”

Oh. A flood of relief washes over him and his whole body relaxes.

“Love you too. Always have.”

“I know.”

Within a few minutes Ray falls fast asleep.

Ray’s dreaming of snow again, and a lonesome cabin high in the mountains, surrounded by trees dusted with white. But best of all, in his dream he’s making love to the person he cares about most in the world.


	14. SCENES FROM A HAT (CODA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the End Notes for a complete list of historical, improv, literature, and song references used in this story.

Six weeks later .…

Ray wraps his arms around Fraser’s waist from behind and presses a cheek against the back of his neck. Fraser stops shucking the ear of corn he’s holding and sets it down on the countertop in Ray’s warm, light-filled kitchen. He leans back into Ray’s touch, rolling his head forward to expose more skin. Ray rewards him with a soft kiss and a lick at the base of his neck where it joins the shoulders.

“Mmmm,” Fraser says, purring like a cat.

“I learned a new game at improv class,” Ray hums into Fraser’s skin and nuzzles his hair. “Want to play?” 

Ray has been taking night classes at The Second City for several weeks now and is thoroughly enjoying himself. Darren Nichols had gone back to Berlin, saying something about needing a break from reality (as though he hadn’t already experienced that, but whatever), and Andy, the new instructor, seemed to know what he was doing so it was all good.

“I like  _ this _ game,” Fraser says, turning around and pulling Ray close. “Can we ...” he kisses Ray’s nose, “play ...” he nips Ray’s chin, “... this one instead?” finally landing a slick one on Ray’s smiling mouth.

Ray kisses him back lazily for a couple of seconds, without heat, but without rejection, either. 

“Aw, c’mon, humor me. It’ll be fun.”

Fraser dives in for another quick kiss, “As enjoyable as this?”

“Nothing’s as fun as this,” Ray says, sliding his palm down Ben’s backside and grabbing a handful of denim-covered ass. “But there’s more to life than sex, Fraser.”

Fraser smiles and looks seductively at Ray’s mouth. “If you insist,” he says. “But we get to play what I want to play later.” He shoots Ray a smolder and Ray can’t help but laugh.

“You got a deal, Mountie.”

“What does your game entail?”

“We write down ideas on pieces of paper and stick ‘em in your hat, then pull one out and think up funny stuff to say.”

“I’m not sure I am actually capable of being funny.”

“You’re supposed to say  _ ‘Yes _ ,  _ And …’ _ ” Ray chides him.

Fraser nods. “Very well, as you wish. Yes.”

They write suggestions on little scraps of paper, fold them up, and drop them into Fraser’s Stetson.

Fraser pulls out the first one and reads it: “Unsuccessful themed restaurant ideas.”

“Caribou and Chips,” Ray says.

“Tell that to my friend Tarkik up in Nunavut. He makes a good living out of his trailer selling just that, although he always includes a generous side of brown lichen and chokecherries.”

“Of course he does.”

Ray reads his paper next: “Bad ideas for television shows.”

Fraser smirks. “A cop and a Mountie end up partners in Chicago.”

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen,” Ray says, laughing. “And if it did, I bet it would be so bad they’d cancel it —   _ twice _ .” He hands Fraser the last slip of paper. “Your turn.”

Fraser reads the paper to himself, smiles, then says out loud: “Inappropriate times to confess your undying love.”

“When you’re drowning on a sinking ship,” Ray says, giving Fraser a mock-glare.

Fraser cocks an eyebrow. “I thought that was a pretty good time, actually ….”

“You bastard! I knew it! I fucking knew it! That  _ was _ a kiss.”

Fraser says nothing. He just smiles, gathers Ray into his arms, and without words, confesses his undying love.

 

AND, SCENE.

(The End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both “Maya” (The Second City) and “Shimmer Floor Wax” (SNL) sketches are online and absolutely worth seeking out.
> 
> All improv sketches are from The Second City Chicago/Toronto, and the TV show Exit 57. 
> 
> There really was a Canadian takeover of Chicago’s The Second City management in the mid 1990s. Rat problems were real too, but the crime story is entirely made up.
> 
> Literary References:  
> Some actors’ dialogue was inspired by The Second City Unscripted, Mike Thomas; the rest is a figment of my overactive imagination.  
> “let slip the dogs of war” — Julius Caesar, Shakespeare  
> “you have been chosen” — The Fellowship of the Ring — J.R.R. Tolkien  
> Calvin and Hobbes — Bill Watterson  
> “foul and putrid” — A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce  
> “To be a glove upon that hand” — Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare  
> “To be wise and love, exceeds man’s might” — Othello, Shakespeare  
> Fraser’s ‘poem’ is the final lines of Ulysses, James Joyce.
> 
> Songs Referenced:  
> Greased Lightning, Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey  
> Paint it Black, The Rolling Stones  
> My Wife Dumped Me For A Guy Named Jesus, Paul Dinello  
> Good Times, Chic  
> Brick House, Commodores  
> S.O.S., ABBA  
> Lady Marmalade, Patti Labelle  
> Hot Stuff, Donna Summer  
> Anthem, Leonard Cohen


End file.
